


Halting Problem

by MnemonicMadness



Series: M's long(-ish) Rinch fics [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Harold Finch, Codependency, Declarations Of Love, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Harold's sanity disapproves of time loops and John's recklessness, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Humor, Hurt John, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Oblivious Harold, Only One Bed™, Pining, Praise Kink, Service Kink, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, briefly Overlord!Harold, but these idiots still don't get it, everyone ships it, hurt harold, i don't know what happened, it's fine because time loops, oops I forgot the most important tag, so much pining, these tags are a rollercoaster and so is this fic, this got a little out of hand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: The world circles around them in a vortex of Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, while they’re in an inexplicable standstill, watching on from the eye of the hurricane with only one another for company.Or: Harold and John are trapped in a time loop.Warning: This fic has temporary MCDs(warnings in chapter notes)





	1. 18-22

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michaelssw0rd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/gifts).



> ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ Happy Birthday Tee! ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ I hope you will have a wonderful birthday and a year full of health and relaxation (at least for your standards, the universe owes you that much at the very least) and adventures and good surprises! You are an amazing friend and an inspiration and I am so very lucky to know you ♥ All my love and best wishes, and I hope I'll see you soon-ish and get to give you an actual hug, but until then *virtually squishes you* ♥♥  
> (Also, I hope that your fondness for time loop fics extends to this fandom and that this thing'll be a fun read!)
> 
> Special thanks goes to (oh dear, I have whined about this to lots of people) Leena, Sky, IM, and Killclaudio for letting me rant and whine about this and bounce ideas off.  
> Extra special thanks goes to Mula for all the cheerleading and sprinting and generally being awesome and amazing and incredibly supportive!  
> Thank you so much, I would never have managed to finish this (especially not this quickly) without any of you!!!!! This fandom is the best!

On the 18th iteration, his fingers only blindly type four letters before his conscious mind catches up and he stops. The cursor blinks on the screen, halted in the middle of a function in the a half-finished program he is always working on in the beginning of each iteration. He counts down eight seconds, then looks at the time at the bottom right corner of the screen just in time to see the 08:37 switch to a 08:38. Another two seconds, then the pigeon hiding in a nook of the weathered stone that makes up the library’s façade is startled by the sound of the car horn down the street. The tarp covering the outside of the window crinkles as it flies past, 18 flaps of its wings, then the bird is out of earshot.

This iteration, Harold decides to wait instead of getting to work right away and today, it takes only a further three seconds until he hears John’s footsteps – according to John, he finds himself on the main staircase each Wednesday at 08:37am – coming down the hallway and he enters the room after eleven steps.

“Good morning, Mr Reese.” He greets him, because habits still hold up even when stuck in what ought to be a scientific impossibility

“Wednesday again, huh?” John observes idly as he hands Harold the cup of tea he brought.

“Thank you.”

“You know you don’t need to thank me, right? I got this weeks ago.”

“Technically, since it’s Wednesday again, you did buy it this morning.”

“Yeah, but this morning was weeks ago.”

John smirks at him when Harold involuntarily grimaces at the oxymoronic sentence. He sighs.

“However one may want to think about it, our current _predicament_ is hardly a sufficient excuse to let basic courtesy slide.”

“Whatever you say, Finch.” is the answer that gets him, and John briefly squeezes his shoulder before he moves away from the desk to put away the book he’d been reading before this whole mess began and pick up the one he’d started reading yesterday evening – or rather, in two days’ time, only of the previous iteration.

As John starts leafing through the pages to find the place he’d left off – unfortunately, as they’d come to realise rather quickly, bookmarks, notes, _anything_ , like the rest of existence, resets on Friday at 49 seconds past 09:16pm – Harold turns back to his computer, closing the program that almost seems to be mocking him, open and unfinished, every Wednesday morning. Then he looks up at the webcam.

“I know you’re watching me.” he starts, just like he has for the past, consecutive nine iterations. “And I know you aren’t supposed to directly interact with me outside of the irrelevant protocol, but I also know that you _can_. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t ask this of you, but this is an emergency. I need your help.” One, two, three seconds, and the light next to the webcam blinks once. As always, he waits another moment before prompting “Can you see me?”

Two seconds. The screen goes black for a fraction of a moment, then it lights back up with the image from the webcam; his own face, framed with a yellow box, the designation of _Admin_ hovering beside it, and Harold can’t help but smile at the familiar sight. “Thank you.”

The Machine, just like everything, anyone else but him and John Reese, resets with each iteration, so once again Harold finds himself succinctly explaining their situation to his creation, using the phrasing that, the past three times, has resulted in the Machine’s fairly speedy compliance. Unlike nearly anything else these repetitive days, in this matter time is of the essence. It has taken eleven iterations to find a way to persuade his creation to assist him alone, but only one for him to realise that the Machine’s analysis of possible causes for their situation will deliver the same results – results that so far haven’t proven overly promising – with each iteration, and only as many as can be found within a single one.

And so it is, that after his explanation, his fingers once again find the keyboard, setting additional parameters in hopes of narrowing down the results into search fields, to gain different ones with each repetition. Behind him, John turns a page, though Harold doubts he is reading. He can feel the amused glance directed at his back.

“No early start on tomorrow’s numbers for you today?” he asks without turning around, listening to more pages rustle as John closes his book just before getting to his feet. Three steps, and he is hovering close enough that Harold can feel the warmth emanating from him, close enough that he brushes against Harold’s shoulder when he puts the new book – _Strangers on a Train_ – down on the desk. Harold’s typing barely falters, but he knows his partner has noticed, doesn’t need to look up to see the smirk once more firmly in place.

“As long as I don’t bump into Baker at the gas station again, the Dawsons will be fine until Thursday night. Thought I’d try to finally get to both the shooting and the crash in time today. Noticed there’s a construction site at East 85th last Thursday. If I get through there, I might make it.”

Their usual routine. No numbers on Wednesday, but as they’d been aware since the third iteration, a shooting with one casualty and a car crash with three near simultaneously, four blocks’ distance between them and so far, John has been unable to prevent both.

Tomorrow, at 09:56am if he decides to remain in the library – if not, times vary depending on which payphone is in closest reach – Harold will receive three numbers, those of a David Baker, and Lisa and Roger Dawson; the former being Mrs Dawson’s lover, intending to shoot her in his apartment on the night of Thursday to Friday, having realised that she had no intention to leave her husband for him and will likely end their relationship in the near future. Mrs Dawson in the meantime, plans to spend the night with her lover, to have an alibi for poisoning her husband for his life insurance. Unaware that Mr Dawson, having found out about his wife’s affair, in turn intends to dispose of Mr Baker that night.

A case that, in addition to the initial panic when he had first realised the predicament he and his partner have found themselves in, still causes Harold a small measure of relief over the repetitions, if only for the opportunity to spare John his guilt over losing a number. Initially, it took them four iterations to save the lives of all three of them. Friday’s number in comparison – Mrs Estevez, 83, widow, unknowing witness to an insurance fraud – is downright easy to resolve.

“Do be careful, Mr Reese.” Harold tells him as he listens to him step away.

“Relax, Finch,” is the lighthearted answer. “if something happens, I’ll be fine and back here on Wednesday.”

Harold sighs again and chooses not to argue his point this time, returning his attention to setting the parameters for the Machine’s analysis, listening through the earpiece as John’s motorcycle speeds out into traffic – traffic he knows from the 7th, 8th, 9th and 13th iteration to be composed of a woman on another motorcycle, six BMWs – one red, one black, four silver –, eight VWs – blue, black, white, silver – three Fords…

* * *

Something does happen. The incident isn’t fully visible on any of the surveillance cameras on the street, but John’s injuries tell enough of the story. Somehow, his reckless partner has managed to loosen a part of the scaffolding on his way through the construction site, and a metal pole has pierced his torso and another has fractured his skull, the speed with which he crashed, according to Dr Tillman, leaving him with with additional brain injuries. After sending a quick text with instructions regarding the numbers to the detectives, Harold spends the remainder of this iteration at the side of John’s hospital bed, staring at his unusually pale, unusually still, unconscious form. Avoids Dr Tillman’s sympathetic looks, while trying not to let himself panic.

John’s promise that he will be fine and they’ll both find themselves healthy and whole in the library on the 19th Wednesday rings through his mind and he clings to it. Ever since they’d found a way to successfully resolve the Dawson matter, he has been fervently if silently wishing for this insanity to end, to wake up on Saturday morning. Now, there is nothing he wishes for more than another Wednesday following Friday, because if he were to wake up on Saturday morning, he knows, despite Dr Tillman’s forced optimism, that John wouldn’t wake up with him.

* * *

On Wednesday morning of the 19th iteration, Harold’s hands still after four letters, and John steps hurriedly into the room just after the time on the screen switches to 08:38 with the tea in his hand, a sheepish look on his face, and a genuinely rueful “Sorry, Finch.”

And Harold breathes a sigh – of relief or of lingering irritation, even he himself isn’t sure – just as the car horn sounds and the pigeon flies from its nook.

* * *

“Mr Reese? Is everything alright?”

The tinny, distorted sound of something shattering comes through the earpiece in response, followed by a pained groan that, though to Harold’s relief he recognises the voice as Mr Baker’s, not John’s, makes him wince.

“John?”

A distant bang, finally followed by silence, broken only by John’s panting breaths.

“Fine, Finch.” he eventually replies, and Harold takes a moment to breath out in a relief that even now, in the 22nd iteration, is as visceral as it had been before this predicament, before the knowledge that by Wednesday, every last scratch and bruise or any of the other various injuries he sustains with alarming frequency will be vanished from his partner’s body as if they’d never existed at all. Just as the one bruise on his left forearm, sustained on their last Tuesday, faded to a greenish yellow but never quite gone on Friday, will be fresh and purple on Wednesday.

“I assume you have successfully dissuaded Mr Baker from his plans for this iteration?”

John’s breaths begin to slow, it nonetheless takes him a moment to answer, and Harold can almost hear his shrug. “This tactic worked fine in the 6th loop, don’t see why it shouldn’t work now.”

“I believe calling your admittedly creative threats and the physical reinforcement a _tactic_ is something of an overstatement, Mr Reese.” he tells him with dry amusement.

For the following few seconds, Harold almost fears he has overstepped. John’s renewed failure in preventing the Wednesday morning car crash weighs on him and even after confronting Mr Baker, the tension in his voice remains, but eventually, his teasing is rewarded with a laugh. Low and a little too quiet, but Harold will take it.

“Take that up with the CIA, they said it was. And not everyone can be a genius.”

“Your faith in me is appreciated, though I must admit it’s hard to feel that way at the moment. Perhaps some distraction would do us both some good. Meet me at the diner at 7th and 35th, there will be an attempted robbery of a nearby jewellery store with three injured in approximately two hours. I thought we might be able to fit that as well as lunch in time to pay Mrs Dawson a visit?”

And finally, John’s voice seems a little lighter. “I’m on my way, should be there in about 15 minutes.”

“Excellent, I’ll see you then.” Harold turn the earpiece off with a quick tap to it and faces his computer screens. Sighs in frustration. This time, he has requested the Machine restrict its approaches towards the analysis of the phenomenon merely to the realm of quantum physics, hoping to narrow the field down further in the coming iterations, but even though – or perhaps especially – while he has a basic understanding of this area of science, it’s hardly his area of expertise and to the best of his knowledge, once again none of the possible explanations stands out as any more plausible or supported by evidence than the others. They’re little more than the ASI equivalent of educated guesses.

In the next iteration, he decides, once he has done some more research he will give one of his wealthier aliases an interest in this matter and seek out actual experts. He knows he won’t be believed when he tells someone he is stuck in a time loop – 22 iterations, and the mere thought still sounds utterly ridiculous even to himself despite noticeably adjusting to the situation itself – but as he remembers John telling a number once, what is thought to be strange in an average person is merely eccentric for the rich.

In the meantime, he switches his computer to stand-by and winces when his leg protests any movement after having stayed seated for so long, but he walks down the hallway with a smile, looking forward to lunch and cautiously optimistic that everything might just go smoothly until this Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? If so, I hope you might leave me a comment in my still imaginary christmas stocking :)
> 
>  **MCD warning:** This fic has temporary major character deaths, if you'd prefer to avoid those chapters/be warned beforehand, please highlight the text below in between the ::: to make it visible.
> 
> :::  Iterations (number will be in chapter title) containing MCD: 33, 54, 59, 61 ::: 


	2. 24-26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, and apologies in advance for my Spanish being more than a little rusty (if yours is better than mine, corrections are certainly welcome!).  
> Also, apologies for the wait, I was posting other things in between, but I'm generally aiming for more or less weekly updates with this thing. Let's see how that goes...

It takes until the 24th iteration for John’s frustration to grow to the point that he attempts the shortcut through the construction site for the second time and Harold’s heart flutters painfully in his chest as he finds himself racing to the hospital again. John’s injuries aren’t quite as severe this time since at least the head injuries he has sustained are milder, but his left leg is broken in four places and a broken rib has punctured his left lung. His body is as pale and still in the hospital bed as it had been the last time, and Dr Tillman eyes Harold with sympathetic understanding as he has to swallow thickly, as he sits down and holds onto John’s hand almost tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, sits and waits for him to wake up. He barely remembers to send a text with instructions concerning the numbers to Detective Carter.

John’s eyes don’t open until Friday morning, but by then the drainage tube has been removed from his lung and he is breathing on his own and the number of medical equipment hooked up to him has been reduced significantly, and enough relief threads through Harold’s worries and fears to allow anger to pass through with it.

“Didn’t we agree you wouldn’t attempt to cross through the construction site again?” He asks him, voice quiet in hopes of preventing it from breaking, several hours later once John has woke up more fully.

John winces, though Harold isn’t quite sure whether it’s from pain or Harold’s concerned irritation with him that he can’t seem to gain control over. “Sorry Finch. It’s just… There’s gotta be a way to save those people.”

“Not if it means this! Not if it means it ends with you comatose due to lesions in your brain, or intubated because of a punctured lung! You could have _died_ _,_ John!”

He shrugs, a movement that requires obvious effort, but doesn’t meet Harold’s eyes. “I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

_And so will they be_ _,_ Harold finds himself thinking, but firmly pushes the thought aside before he can express it, and it’s with shame that he remembers all the arguments with Nathan over the Irrelevants. Realises how easy it seems recently, to forget all the lessons he’d learned too late to save Nathan when it comes to John Reese’s safety. “In case it has somehow escaped your notice, the fact that we reset to Wednesday doesn’t mean you’re invincible in the meantime.” He takes a deep breath, hoping it’ll steady his voice which has begun to shake towards the end of his sentence. “I just wish you wouldn’t take this as an excuse to be so reckless with your own life and well-being.”

John seems to search for an answer, but before he finds one Harold is struck with a sudden need to reach out for him, to hold on, to press his palm to his chest so he can feel John’s breathing and heartbeat, reassure himself that – Wednesdays or not – John is alright at this very moment. It reminds him suddenly that he still hasn’t let go of John’s hand, and so he doesn’t wait for the other to speak. Pries his fingers loose before he the longing gets too much to do so and leaves the hospital room with a muttered remark regarding helping the detectives with Mrs Estevez.

He can’t bring himself to leave once the door shuts behind him, safely shutting off any opportunity to overstep personal boundaries in ways that he knows John to be too kindhearted to complain about. He spends the rest of the 24th iteration like this, all too aware that John can see him stay through the window in the upper part of the door. Time slips by until it’s 16 minutes and 49 seconds past 9pm and Harold blinks and finds himself seated at his desk in the library on the 25th Wednesday, fingers typing four letters before he can react and force them to stop. The time switches to 08:38, the pigeon flies past the window, and John arrives quietly and with a guilt clouding his eyes that makes something heavy and unpleasant churn in Harold’s gut.

* * *

 “Please! Come inside! Mi casa es su casa!”

A grateful Mrs Estevez takes them both by the arm while refusing to take no for an answer, and he and John exchange a partly helpless, partly bemusedly charmed look. The tension still lingers between them, John’s gaze is still full of guilt and every time Harold closes his own, he see John still and unconscious in his hospital bed as though the image is seared onto the inside of his eyelids. But it’s difficult to hold onto such sentiments when faced with the elderly woman, who, for all her 83 years, seems filled to the brim with excess energy and joy, and Harold’s “Thank you, but you really needn’t trouble yourself, Mrs Estevez.” is halfhearted at best.

“No. You saved my life, the least I can do is cook for you, yes? And please, call me Margarita. I hope you like empanadas?”

Without being given the opportunity to answer, they are dragged inside. Mrs Estevez’ apartment is on the small side, but her spirit seems to have seeped into every last corner of it, decorated in bright and cheerful colours, blooming orchids lining every window sill, flowers in crystal vases on doilies on every table, figurines on the bookshelves, floral paintings on the wall amongst photographs of friends and relatives, the entire décor skirting the edge between tasteful and overwhelming. Moments later, they find themselves seated at the dining table, staring slightly perplexed at the pristine white tablecloth that seems to almost beg for stains.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” John says a few minutes after their impromptu hostess has vanished into her kitchen. The hesitance in his voice pains him, but Harold still has to smile, listening to the clattering of dishes and her singling.

“She certainly is.” This 25th Friday is the first Harold has done fieldwork in Mrs Estevez’ case, on his own insistence due to John spraining his ankle the day before – accidental, not even caused by unnecessary recklessness, and still it has only increased the tension that still lingers between them since the last iteration.

Only now, they finally share a smile again, still tense but it’s a start. Slowly, a mouth-watering smell begins to waft through the apartment from the kitchen, making it seem even more homely and it seems impossible not to relax. Mrs Estevez steps out of the kitchen to serve them a generous glass of wine each and nods approvingly after taking one look at them.

“My abuelita always told me, every problem is easier with food. When you have a full stomach, you will find a solution.” She briefly returns to the kitchen, still humming a cheerful tune, returning with both arms laden with plates of food in what seems like quantities fit to feed an army. “You know,” she continues as she serves them, ignoring Harold’s signalling that it’s enough with a jaunty smile, “you two remind me of me and my husband. Oh, I loved Esteban, que su alma descanse en la paz eterna del Señor, but he could be one stubborn man. When we argued, we would not speak for days about what made us upset. Weeks, sometimes, until my sister made us sit down and talk after dinner. Food helps with everything! Now please, eat, before it gets cold!”

Over dinner – the food is excellent and she beams when they both compliment her and eat with enthusiasm – Margarita regales them with stories of her youth and her relationship with her husband, drawing not so subtle parallels that have Harold repeatedly glance towards John before he catches himself. It’s hardly the first time someone has draws this particular conclusion about them, and yet when their eyes meet over one of those glances, by the time Harold finally manages to tear his away, he can feel a flush rising on his cheeks. A part of him thinks there might have been a matching tinge of pink on John’s, but he doesn’t dare turn to look again for several minutes.

Eventually, John begins telling his tales of his youthful delinquencies to Margarita’s great amusement and tension he hadn’t even been aware of leaves Harold as he lets her laughter and John’s soothing voice wash over him and he ascribes it to his state of content relaxation and the influence of the wine that once they turn to him, it doesn’t take him too long to acquiesce and indulging them with a story from his MIT days. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way John’s eyes seem to light up as he listens, all his focus fully on Harold. Pretends he isn’t acutely aware that it is only Margarita who won’t remember this evening come Wednesday.

By the time they’re leaving, the plates are miraculously empty despite the sheer quantities of food they contained, and it’s already two minutes past 9pm. Margarita gives them a strangely satisfied nod when Harold can’t help but laugh when John does an impression of Detective Fusco.

“See?” she says, “A full stomach helps! But it’s love that conquers all. You two will be fine, just like me and Esteban.”

She gives each of them a surprisingly tight hug and a wet kiss on the cheek when they thank her for the meal and say their goodbyes, and only lets them leave when she has elicited a promise to meet her again from them.

They leave in silence, but unlike the past three days, it’s finally a comfortable one once more and after a few minutes of walking, John’s arm finds its way around Harold’s waist. He is glad for the cover of darkness and the convenient excuse the glass of wine he consumed provides for his blush as he only realises that he is leaning into the touch when John’s hold tightens slightly. And yet, he cannot quite bring himself to step away. He blames the wine again for that inability, for lowering his inhibitions just enough that he can’t help but let himself enjoy this.

A cat yowls somewhere and a red car passes them, but otherwise this part of the city is comparatively quiet, and they stroll at a leisurely pace. Friday evenings are cloudy but mild and cold seems like a very distant concept with the way Harold is tucked into John’s side. The direction in which they walk is a random one, wordlessly agreeing not to take the car Harold parked a block from Margarita’s apartment building earlier this evening. A quick glance at his watch reveals it’s already 14 minutes past nine. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the sound of a glass bottle breaking.

“You were right.” John finally breaks the silence then, voice low and quiet to avoid breaking their content moment with it. “I was being reckless. Knowing I’ll be back on my feet with the next loop… Seemed selfish not to take advantage of that.”

Harold sighs, but can’t help leaning closer into the other’s hold. “I’d prefer if you were to refrain from such risky endeavours in the future. I knew hiring you would place you in harm’s way, but I’d rather that didn’t happen more than absolutely necessary. But for what it’s worth I believe I owe you an apology as well. No matter the… responsibility I feel for you as your employer and as your friend, it isn’t my place to get so upset with you. I do understand your desire to save those people’s lives, I just wish you’d keep in mind that...”

* * *

 “...your life is worth no less than theirs, especially to me.” he speaks quietly into the still empty library on Wednesday morning of the 26th iteration as his fingers type five letters in his distraction. And the time switches to 08:38 and the car horn sounds and the pigeon flies from its nook. And John arrives with the minutes yet weeks old cup of Sencha Green in his hand and a questioning look on his face, but the warm feeling of the wine that loosened Harold’s tongue is gone, so he accepts the cup with a simple “Thank you, Mr Reese.” and turns back to his computer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this chapter? If so, I hope you might leave me a comment, comments are the honey in my tea, the cool breeze on a way too hot summer day, the comfy mountain of pillows on my bed... you get the picture XD


	3. 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides face* I think I jinxed myself last week saying I'm aiming for weekly updates. Oops. My apologies for the delay, and more apologies for this chapter being rather short. The next one will be a bit longer and we'll finally start really getting into the plot!

Like so many times before when someone has made this particular misassumption regarding the nature of their relationship, it stays with him for a time. The looks, the comments, be they – as in this case – well-intended, or otherwise. They linger in his mind like a scent that draws out old memories, except in this case, it’s not a memory but a fantasy, a whole host of them, small, tender longings that he ordinarily keeps locked away from his immediate awareness.

The way the Wednesday evening sun catches in John’s hair, and the way the sight has him itching to run his fingers through it. A speck of dust on John’s suit that has him reaching out to brush it away, unaware of his actions until it’s too late to pull back. Looks that linger too long, always on the verge of getting caught by the other, and smiles that contain just a hint too much of something soft.

The effect is magnified by their predicament. Ordinarily, there is the distraction of cases, the urgency of solving them in time to prevent bloodshed, but the only blood he fears will be shed is John’s through his own recklessness – diminished for now, but as much as Harold wishes otherwise, he is all too aware that it’s a question of when rather than if it will make its reappearance in full force. The world circles around them in a vortex of Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, while they’re in an inexplicable standstill, watching on from the eye of the hurricane with only one another for company.

Two iterations and his mind still hasn’t seen it fit to relent its hyperfocus on his partner, and he finally gives in on the 28th Thursday and leaves the comfort of the library, leaves the Machine to its task of analysing, a task he has begun regarding with an increasing sense of futility.

The library is silent as he makes his way through its hallways, John is busy with Mrs Dawson, his voice a low, indecipherable but nonetheless soothing murmur over the earpiece, the volume of the call turned all the way down in a sort of compromise since Harold can’t bring himself to hang up, even as it is hardly conductive in distracting himself from the other. He steps through the door into the empty alleyway and finally out onto the streets, as always bustling with life. The sky is the overcast grey of Thursday afternoons, and by the time he has reached the end of the block, he can tell the time down to the minute by the flock of sparrows crossing overhead – never seen so far from precisely at this angle, yet familiar all the same.

Four seconds, three, two, one, then from across the street there’s the bang of a door slammed shut, followed by the vociferous Thursday argument between two young men and a woman storming off down the street, until she almost runs into another woman in a red coat pushing a stroller.

He has walked this street on enough Thursdays that every stranger’s face seems passingly familiar, their every interaction unsurprising. He feels like a spectator, watching them, disconnected and contradictory, a stranger yet too well acquainted with every detail surrounding him, akin to someone watching a mediocre movie for the second time. Something not worth remembering, and through repetition more and more parts of it remain behind in his memory almost against his will. The only counterpoint is John’s voice, still in the process of convincing Mrs Dawson that her ill intentions towards her husband are as lacking in justification as on every other Thursday.

Thus distracted, he lets his feet carry him where they will and it takes him a few minutes to realise that he is nearing Washington Square Park, where he forces himself to a halt, staring unseeingly at the red brick façades of the buildings hemming the park. The light cream coloured curtains of Grace’s apartment are drawn closed and still, he knows in roughly five minutes there will be a street race between three Harley Davidsons and Grace won’t arrive until a good fifteen minutes after that, stepping inside after a brief chat with one of her neighbours. The Thursday clouds that are already growing darker begin to spray the city with a fine drizzle.

Harold has half a mind to return to the library, but that thought seems even less appealing than that of the impending change in weather. So he swallows down the detached sense of melancholia he feels at the sight of those off-white curtains and sits down on one of the benches, one more exposed than the ones he chose before this insanity began because he knows that on Thursdays, Grace won’t look this way. The wood is cool and still slightly damp from Thursdays’ early morning rainfall and the air is crisp and humid and awash with the scents of the greenery surrounding him. He pulls his phone from his pocket, disables the app alerting him when he is in too close proximity to Grace. Raises the volume of his earpiece and listens to John’s breathing. Steady, yet unpredictable. Familiar, yet new, the only variable in the otherwise fixed equation the world has become. Reassuring.

Behind him, the motorbikes noisily race by and then Grace arrives a moment after the first proper raindrops fall, her red hair bright and radiant against the backdrop of a world whose colours seem to wash out a little more with every repetition. This close, he thinks he can see some remaining flecks of paint clinging to the delicate skin of her hands and her wrists where they poke out from the sleeves of her light rain coat. As always, the sight of her makes a dull ache beneath his ribcage flare up, familiar even as he can feel that scar tissue has finally begun to grow across the emotional wound, slowly but steadily.

Silently, he watches as she begins digging through her handbag for her keys already just after rounding the corner, watches the wind play with her hair, something he has watched countless times over the years, up close and from a distance, and thrice on Thursdays. From this bench, he can see the victorious little quirk of her lips when she finds them, a sight that has him swallow thickly as he realises that he had half-forgotten the way this particular expression looks.

She looks up and spots her neighbour, who gives her a shy wave and a slightly too bright smile – Thomas Blakely, living two doors down from her, a lawyer working with a small firm, someone who chose his profession out of conviction rather than having been attracted by its salary. A quiet man, with an interest in arts and theatre, and, other than a handful of parking tickets and one incident of trespassing at age 17, a clean record.

Grace’s steps lengthen and she and Mr Blakely duck under the nearest tree to escape the worst of the rain as they chat amicably. She eyes him with shy, hesitant interest, left hand playing with the necklace on which Harold knows she has started wearing her engagement ring, and a part of him aches for the time with her that he’s lost all those years ago when he stumbled out of the triage room with blood running down his neck and shrapnel still in his body. A larger part, he finds, is glad for her.

He isn’t surprised when a moment later, familiar, barely audible footsteps approach him and no more raindrops sink into the wool of his suit as an umbrella is spanned over him. Silently, John sits down on the bench beside him, a little too close, radiating warmth, and neither of them looks at the other.

“Are you going to talk to her?” John asks after a while, voice quiet and strangely toneless. Across the street, Grace laughs, still deep in conversation, sheltered by the tree, unbothered by the rain. A gust of wind toys with her hair, save for the strand she is playing with herself. She looks ethereal, beautiful.

“I can’t claim that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind on the occasion.” Harold admits.

“Then why not?”

“It occurred to me that if I were to approach her, I would be doing so for myself, not for her. I would want to speak to her to tell her all the things I was to afraid to tell her about myself before, everything I regret not telling her, and to apologise for all the pain I’ve caused her. To correct my own mistakes, to find my own closure, to lighten my own conscience. And I have been… so _selfish_ with her for such a long time already when that is the very last thing she deserves, and what could be more selfish than asking for her forgiveness, especially since I’d be doing so in the knowledge that she won’t even remember the moment the next iteration starts.” The Thursday rain is growing heavier, and Harold can barely make out her smile anymore. “No, if I were to talk to her, I should only do so for her sake.”

He thinks he sees a movement at the edge of his vision, thinks he sees John reach for him, thinks he can feel a hint of warmth above the back of his hand. But the half-anticipated touch never comes and he dismisses it as a particularly wishful figment of his imagination, brought on by melancholia. They watch on for another moment in companionable, understanding silence.

“I do miss her. Quite considerably so.” he finds himself breaking the silence. “I used to wonder whether I used to try to only show her the best parts of myself, or whether she drew those parts out, but the truth is, I simply have changed. I am no longer the person who was with her, and neither is she the same as she used to be. And there is a part of me that still loves her and in all likelihood will always love her, and mourns having lost the chance at a life with her. But I stood at a crossroad after the ferry bombing and I consciously chose the path leading away from her and that life, and I’ve made my peace with that choice.”

The rain is pelting down on their umbrella and has found its way through the foliage of the tree, where Grace bids Mr Blakely goodbye and hurries inside. A last flash of red hair, then the door slips shut. And finally, Harold forces himself to look at John, who is still turned towards the other side of the road, face expressionless. But his eyes seem as bright and radiant in the rain-grey world as Grace’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope this was enjoyable despite being a little short? If you wouldn't mind, please tell me what you think, comments are food for my soul :)


	4. 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* I really am bad at this regular updates thing. Okay, let's see if reverse psychology works: @self: Schedules are for suckers and I solemnly swear that from now on I will update whenever I damn well please. Yep.
> 
> Fair warning: Beware the angst! Mild gore, John's lack of self-preservation, heavy angst, **temporary Major Character Death**

It all goes wrong on Wednesday morning of the 33rd iteration. One moment he is halfheartedly changing the parameters of the Machine’s analysis once again while keeping an eye on the surveillance feed tracking John on his race against time through downtown Manhattan. The perpetrators of the Wednesday morning shooting are unconscious but still very much breathing, soon to be picked up by a nearby patrol after Harold gained access to their radios once again. It’s an exercise of will to keep from scolding John when he helplessly watches him turn towards the shortcut through the construction site and only the thought that surely, distracting him cannot be productive at this point, keeps the choice words in.

And surely enough, the scaffolding falls as John passes through, the clatter when it hits the ground distorted through the speakers of Harold’s computer in the complete silence the library is cast in the pause of Harold’s typing, the pause in his breathing when he distantly realises he has started to hold his breath. His heart pounds rapidly, deafeningly, but the scaffolding misses John by a hair’s breadth, and when finally, _finally_ he has cleared the construction site, Harold slowly releases his breath in a sigh of relief and exasperation. The relief only lasts for a moment.

Once second, he is watching John race along the street, watches the two cars rapidly approach the corner at which they collide each Wednesday, and he knows John is too late once again, knows they both will helplessly watch the crash that kills the cars’ three occupants. In the next, the crash occurs, a dull thud along with the forceful distortion of metal sounding through his speakers.

But on this 33rd Wednesday, the crash only involves one car and its two passengers survive nearly unharmed. This Wednesday, there is only a single casualty, and a part of Harold knows that the moment he hears the dull thud of the car’s impact on John’s body as he throws himself into its path, knows it the moment he watches as his partner is sent flying by the sheer force of it, knows it when he sees John’s suddenly limp form hit the pavement, colour spreading over his white shirt, blood staining it red, red, red.

“Mr Reese?” he calls out for him anyway, hoping against hope for a reply. His voice shakes, sounds so small in the empty library. “John?”

From the speakers, from his earpiece, only static.

Only static as the people on the live surveillance footage cluster around John’s body, obstruct more and more of the view, leaving him with only brief glimpses of black and white and red; so much red. Silence and static as ambulances fill the footage with flashing light, red and blue. Silence and static and a distant sort of awareness of Harold’s own heartbeat as they drive off, people parting to free the way, and John’s body no longer lies on the pavement, all that’s left behind is red, glimpses of it where the onlookers are slow to disperse.

Harold thinks he’s shaking, but it’s a detached observation, inconsequential. His heart pounds painfully, his blood rushes in his ears, his hands are cold and clammy with sweat, and the static, the static of their phone-call being cut off the moment the impact destroyed John’s phone is deafening. Somewhere outside, two men get into a shouting match because it’s Wednesday and Wednesdays have Sencha Green in the morning and a pigeon flying off with 18 audible strokes of its wings and those men shouting and a car crash with three casualties, three, not one, all three passengers from the colliding cars, not _John_.

The shouting stops, leaving Harold with silence and static. There is something empty in his chest, as if something collapsed in on itself. A singularity, growing, swallowing everything from the inside out, even the light.

He isn’t sure how much time passes before his phone starts to ring, breaking through the silence, interrupting the noise of static when he mechanically picks it up and answers the call. He must on some level have registered the caller’s ID, he isn’t surprised when he hears Detective Carter’s voice.

“Finch? Something happened. It’s John, witnesses say he just came out of nowhere onto the road and he’s… He’s…” her voice is shaking.

His isn’t, he isn’t sure how, but it’s only empty. “Yes. I know.”

She offers to pick him up, tells him he shouldn’t be alone, but he declines. He doesn’t feel the discomfort in his bad leg as he gets up and limps down the silent hallways past countless books whose colourful spines look washed out and grey like usually only the world outside the library does. Goes through the motions as he slips into his car and pulls out into the too familiar Wednesday traffic, trying not to think about the sound of metal impacting on John’s body, but when that sound isn’t replaying on an endless loop in his mind, all there is left is static and the silence from his earpiece where John’s breathing should be. It occurs to him to turn on music. He doesn’t.

When he exits his car in the no standing area in front of the city morgue Detective Carter pulls him into an embrace he doesn’t return, not even when Detective Fusco joins them, muttering his condolences. Carter’s make-up is smudged, her eyes visibly watery, and Fusco’s are red, tears running down his face even now. Harold’s are dry and he looks down, watching his hands shake, numb, just like his legs.

“Come on.” Carter murmurs with far too much sympathy, a tone that reminds him of Dr Tillman’s when John was laying comatose in a hospital bed, on the 18th Wednesday. She keeps an arm gently around his waist as she leads him inside.

It’s not the 18th Wednesday, and it’s not a hospital bed John lies on. Cold light reflects off the autopsy table’s polished metal and John’s body is covered with a white sheet to replace the blood-soaked suit, eyes closed and motionless, so much paler than he’d been with any of the myriad of various injuries Harold has seen him with over the iterations and the years preceding them, and he steps closer as if in a trance. Some part of him, childlike in its optimism, almost expects John to open his eyes the moment Harold touches him, but he remains perfectly still when Harold reaches for his hand, takes that limp, cold hand into his own and holds on.

“Take as much time as you need.” Carter tells him quietly.

“Friday.” he answers, sees that a part of her wants to ask him why, glad when she doesn’t. “I will need until Friday.” Until 16 minutes and 49 seconds past 9 on Friday evening, until the Wednesday that will follow, because it will follow. Because he refuses to consider the possibility of anything other than another iteration. Not when John’s hand feels so cold in his.

“You need anything else?”

“Thank you Detective Fusco, but no. It’s alright.” He swallows, almost surprised by the lump that seems to have grown in his throat all of a sudden. “It’ll be alright.” he forces out past that lump, more towards himself than the detectives, and pretends he doesn’t see the look they exchange.

Carter squeezes his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him and lend support as Fusco drags three chairs closer over the over-sanitised, grey linoleum floor of the morgue and they sit with him in silent vigil as he holds John’s hand and listens to the static in his mind because even that is better than listening to the whispering fears.

At some point, Carter stands to retrieve a blanket from somewhere and it’s only when she drapes it across his shoulders that he realises he is shivering – from the shock he’s on some level aware he must be in, or the cold of the morgue, he isn’t quite sure. It calls up the memory of the last Saturday _before_ , of spontaneously dining at a new restaurant with John after resolving a number, not having a reservation resulting in them being seated outside in less than ideal weather. The memory of John – of course – immediately noticing Harold’s discomfort and despite Harold’s protest, wrapping him in his jacket, insisting he himself didn’t need it.

The memory should by all means be no older than a few days, but it’s distant and faded and it’s with a start that Harold realises that it has been more than three months of Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays for him and John. Long enough for the mere concept of Saturdays to seem almost as odd and unlikely as that of time-loops was to him once. As difficult to imagine as a day without John’s even, velvet voice in his ear.

Later, the detectives talk to him – talk at him, because all he can hear is silence and static where John’s voice should be – for a little while, until they give up and leave him to his silence. He holds on tighter to the cold hand in his own, and time passes, slow and viscous like tar, agonising and yet all too fleeting, because as much as he wishes for it to skip forward and begin its next cycle he is terrified, because _what if…_

He shuts that train of thought down, locks it away as deep as he can, and lets the time pass. He drinks when either Carter or Fusco place a bottle of water into his free hand and coax him into lifting it to his mouth with gentle encouragements, makes himself swallow a few bites of the food they bring him even though it tastes like ash and leaves him nauseous. He sleeps when his eyes refuse to stay open, short cat naps he startles awake from with silent screams when they bring unnamable, nonsensical nightmares that are forgotten the moment he wakes, but leave a heightened awareness of the emptiness inside him. Still, he’d rather face the nightmares than the sight of John’s lifeless body. It seems paler now. The only colour seems to be that of the vivid bruise on his left forearm, still Wednesday-purple instead of half-healed as it surely should be. The dead cannot heal.

The morgue has neither clock nor windows, illuminated only by the cold neon lights that seem to enhance the sense of sterility. And so, Harold is almost surprised when a few minutes after Fusco left to drive his son to school, Carter walks in and greets him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, and quietly says “It’s Friday.”

“Oh.” He has to force the sound out, voice hoarse and uncooperative after two days of disuse. Swallows thickly, heart quickening with fear. “Thank you, Detective. I won’t need much longer now, only until approximately a quarter past 9pm, then I’ll be on my way. And while I do appreciate and cannot thank you enough for the way you and Detective Fusco have been looking after me, I assure you I’ll be fine on my own. I know you have cases to work on.”

It takes some persuasion, during which Harold eventually remembers Margarita and the threat against her life and lays the necessary details out for Carter, but in the end she leaves with the promise that she and Fusco will check in on him regularly. She leaves him with the silence and the viscous passage of time.

His hand, the one wrapped around John’s, has long started cramping, but he feels it no more than he feels the searing pain in his neck from falling asleep sitting; a blip on the radar, existent but on the edge of his focus at best, disconnected from him. For the first time in two days, he lets his eyes wander from John’s still form to his wristwatch, watches the seconds tick by. One by one, into minutes, into hours.

By 9pm, he is almost ready to hurl the expensive, useless thing against the sterile-white wall of the morgue to stop it, as if he could stop the passage of time with nothing more than breaking all those delicate cogs and ripping out the dial. His mind is humming with anticipation and terror, and he wishes he could hold onto the seconds the way he holds onto John’s hand as every thought he pushed aside invades on his consciousness, as every image he has suppressed so far unfolds in his mind’s eye in high resolution and technicolor.

Of finding himself here at 9.17pm. Of having to leave John’s side when the next Wednesday doesn’t come. Of a Wednesday in silence, of finding himself typing in the library, waiting for John who doesn’t arrive, won’t ever arrive again. Of countless iterations, lost and alone, and he wraps his second hand around John’s too when something is the back of his mind whispers that his sanity would crumble in that scenario, threatens to crack at even the thought of facing the meaningless white noise the world has become, without John. John, who to Harold sometimes seems like the last real thing left.

It’s only at 9.15pm that something drips onto the back of his hand and he notices with surprise that at some point, he has silently started to cry. His eyes follow the path of another tear as it rolls down from where it has dripped onto John’s too pale hand where Harold’s own don’t cover it, and he can’t seem to prevent more tears from falling even though he still feels nothing but a hollowness wrapped in an icy, paralysing fear.

When the minute hand shifts to 16 past 9, he gives in. Pulls John’s hand up and presses the softest of kisses to cold skin, ignoring the scent of disinfectant and death as he sits and breathes. Whispers “Please.” against that skin, pleading to deities he has never been able to believe in, pleading for a million different things, a million different ways he could get John back.

9pm, 16 minutes, and 47 seconds.

48 seconds.

49.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides again so no one can see how much I enjoy a good cliffhanger*  
> Thanks for reading! Please don't murder me? And please tell me what you think, comments are food for the soul!!! :)


	5. 34 - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for all the pain in the last chapter, but look! Fixed it! *shoves all the h/c and questionable humour at my dear, long-suffering readers*

Harold’s fingers tremble as they automatically type two letters before he rips them away from the keyboard, clasping his hands together so tightly his fingers ache and must surely leave bruises, as if that could stop them from shaking. His eyes are dry and the timer in the corner of the screen reads 08:37, then switches to 08:38. In the distance, a car horn blares and the sound startles the pigeon from its nook in the library’s façade. It’s Wednesday.

Holding his breath, Harold listens to the tarp outside the window crinkle as the pigeon flies by before the library is cast back into silence only disturbed by the rush of traffic from outside, a noise so even and constant it could almost be mistaken for static. With every passing second of silence no matter how desperately he strains to hear footsteps in the hall, the emptiness spreads beneath his ribs again.

But then, finally. _Finally_ , the sound of the cup of tea hitting the hallway floor, rapidly approaching footsteps following it, and Harold turns around just in time to see John slow to a near-halt in the doorway, hesitatingly stepping inside, looking guilty and somewhat disoriented but no longer pale and still and dead and Harold’s heart _aches_ with relief, along with the reminder of just how desperately he loves this man. His body moves without his permission, standing so abruptly it nearly makes his weak leg buckle underneath him and for an unthinking moment, all he wants to do is pull John close and kiss him breathless.

The realisation of what he is about to do sets in after the first step towards John and he makes himself halt, silently taking in the sight of his partner who won’t meet his eyes, gaze stoically directed at the wall behind Harold.

“Harold, I...” he trails off, voice quiet and uncertain.

The lingering emptiness in Harold’s ribcage seems to implode, only to expand again as a maelstrom of longing and relief and all the despair and pain-fuelled rage he hasn’t dared let himself feel during the previous three days.

“What were you thinking?” he demands harshly before John can continue, because focussing on that despair seems like the only feasible way to keep himself from kissing him in relief.

John swallows, looking at once stubborn and chastised. “It was the only thing I could think of to stop the accident. I knew I’d be fine today, so I thought...”

“No, John, you didn’t think!” He is almost yelling and it makes something in John’s expression tighten, but now that he has begun to give voice to his fears, he can’t seem to stop. “Obviously you didn’t think about the possibility of lingering effects. Our bodies may reset to Wednesdays, but what we know about the nature of our consciousness, which as far as we know seems to be the only thing exempt from this madness, is mostly confined to the realm of philosophy, so for all you know you might have ended up comatose each Wednesday, or worse, dead nonetheless! And in case this somehow has eluded you this far, the one thing we know even less about is this phenomenon itself! We know _nothing_ about how this works or what caused it or how it is sustained or how long this will go on!” His voice is shaking now, but there still is no stopping the words from gushing out. “Did you even consider that there is no guarantee of a next iteration? Yes, we may very well remain trapped in this loop indefinitely, but for all we know it is just as likely that the current one is the last! A classic halting problem, we simply have no way of determining whether this is an infinite loop or if and when it will halt.”

“Harold...” John crosses the distance between them, reaches out for a moment as if to touch him, but his arm drops uselessly back to his side when Harold begins to pace, needing to alleviate the urge to move, to run like he used to whenever he felt overwhelmed before the ferry bombing took this option from him.

“You _died_ , John! You died, and I had to sit here and _watch you die_.” It’s more than he wants to reveal, and he is distantly aware that there is an edge of hysteria in his voice now, but every thought he has so desperately tried to suppress comes flooding back into his mind, crowding it, replacing the static. “I had to watch your body get thrown into the air when that car hit you, and I had to watch you lying there on the ground, bleeding, and watched the ambulance arrive and take you away, and then I went to the morgue and spent three days next to your body, because you _died_! You died, and there was no guarantee you would be here today, there was no guarantee today would be Wednesday, and I...”

John’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and the whole world seems to narrow down to that touch, and finally, Harold regains enough control to force himself to take a breath only for it to turn into a dry half-sob, half bitter laugh at the sheer, awful absurdity of the situation.

Instead of letting go, John’s other hand gently grasps his elbow, forcing him to stop his pacing. “Harold. Stop. Please, you’re hurting yourself.”

It’s only then that he realises that his bad leg is trembling under his weight – he must have put too much strain on it – and he blinks in surprise before the burning pain radiating from it catches up to his conscious mind. Inevitably, it gives out underneath him a second later, but he doesn’t fall, John easily takes his weight and pulls him closer, at first in support, then into a hesitant embrace.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… You’re right, I wasn’t thinking.”

Harold makes a valiant effort to resist, but when John’s touch lingers, he can’t help but give in, letting himself sink fully into John’s arms that immediately tighten around him. He doesn’t notice the feeling of numbness that still lingers, not until John’s warmth seeps into his skin and the world finally feels real again. And with it, something cold and painful he thinks might have been there since John’s injury during the 18th iteration finally unknots itself in his chest.

By the time he manages to make himself let go, there is a suspicious wetness in his eyes and he is glad John doesn’t mention anything when he subtly wipes the tears away and clears his throat as he makes his way back over to the desk to sit down.

“It’s quite alright, Mr Reese.” he interrupts before John can apologise yet again. His voice still holds the faintest tremor, but as drained as his outburst makes him feel, at least he has regained most of his composure. “In fact, I believe I should be the one apologising, again. As I said before, it’s not within my right to dictate your every choice, especially when for all we know, these three days will indeed go on repeating themselves indefinitely, and nothing either of us do will have a permanent physical consequence. There is little reason for us to have this argument over and over again. After all, this is who you are, your willingness to sacrifice yourself to protect others is what led me to hire you, since I knew it would make you the perfect partner in my mission. It’s only that… You have become a very dear friend to me, so it was hard to see you that way. And I suppose our…  unusual predicament hasn’t helped my ability cope. So I hope you can forgive me my outburst.”

For a moment, John only regards him quietly with a soft, fond smile that makes Harold’s heart ache with longing, then he chuckles.

“Only you, Harold...” he murmurs, quietly enough that Harold isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it. “I still shouldn’t have put you through this.”

“Well, should this happen again, I do think it would put my mind a little more at ease if we knew for certain for how much longer this will go on. Unfortunately, my efforts in that regard have been frustratingly fruitless so far.” A thought occurs to him, one that turns his palms cold and damp with irrational fear, and not for the first time. But worse than this is the thought of having to sit beside John’s body again with nothing but desperation and hope for another loop. With a deep breath and renewed vigour, he turns back towards his computer. “I believe it’s time for me to seek out a different perspective.”

“Haven’t you already talked to every expert and nutcase and everything in between?”

He can hear the smirk in John’s voice, and lets out a huff of amusement. “It certainly does feel that way, especially when it comes to those on the less sane end of that spectrum. But there is someone else I could talk to.”

“Who?”

“I think I would be more likely to gain a useful result if I do this on my own. Please trust me.”

When he briefly glances up towards the glass board, John’s reflection in it is tense, wary, and so is the silence that stretches between them for a few seconds, but in the end, John doesn’t push this line of inquiry.

“Will you be safe?”

Harold gives the question due consideration before giving a brief nod. “Reasonably so. At the very least, I have no reason to assume my life will be in danger, even if the current iteration should turn out to be the last one. Besides, it will take some time to track this person down first.”

* * *

 “Samantha Groves? Isn’t that the woman who kidnapped you?” Carter asks with incredulity on her face and clearly expecting a _no_ or a good explanation as the answer.

“Indeed she is.”

Detective Fusco throws quick glances down towards both ends of the alley behind the 8th precinct as if the woman in question might suddenly appear, might be watching them. “You gotta be kidding me! Why do you even want to find her? Does Wonderboy know about this?”

“No, while Mr Reese is aware that I am searching for someone’s whereabouts, he doesn’t know who it is I’m looking for. And I would _strongly prefer_ that neither of you inform him.”

“So you’ll just go after her, no backup? I thought that lone ranger thing was more John’s style than yours, Finch. So why? And don’t try to tell me you just want to have a chat and catch up.”

Harold eyes the clouds overhead, knowing that the Thursday afternoon rain isn’t long away, and sighs. Tells himself this interaction will be forgotten by next Wednesday. “I assume you both are familiar with the movie Groundhog Day?”

Minutes pass by in silence, both detectives staring at him with confusion and expectation, presumably waiting for a punchline where there is none. It’s Carter’s eyebrows that crawl up towards her hairline first. “You’re serious!”

“I’m afraid yes, unfortunately I am. Very much so.”

“Wait, what?” Fusco’s frown deepens, and he turns towards his partner, “Is he saying what I think he’s saying?” then back to Harold. “Hell, I knew you guys and everything you’re involved in is crazy, but this would be a whole new level of weird even for you lunatics!”

“Each iteration begins just past half past eight each Wednesday morning, and ends at approximately a quarter past nine on Friday evening. The present one is the 34th such iteration, and as far as we’re aware, only Mr Reese and myself seem to remember the previous ones. If it helps prove my case, there will be a car backfiring in front of the precinct about two minutes from now, followed by a suspect by the name of Diego Santores who was arrested for possession of marijuana with the intent to sell attempting to escape, and if I’m not mistaken, we’ll see him run by on your right, chased by two officers, who will capture him halfway down the block, as I have seen them do in the second, 14th and 20th iteration.”

Carter eyes him sceptically, takes a deep breath and opens her mouth, but just as she begins to speak, she is interrupted by the loud noise of the car’s backfire, and Harold watches with irrepressible amusement as they watch the events unfold just as he described, puzzled. Their surprise and astonishment is a pleasant contrast to the way he saw them in the last iteration, grieving in the cold light of the morgue.

After another moment, Fusco blinks and slowly returns his gaze to Harold. “What the hell, are you psychic now?” It’s lighthearted and clearly meant as a joke, bearing the hallmarks of one yet not quite succeeding.

Harold raises his eyebrows at him. “And that hypothesis seems more plausible to you than John and myself being stuck in a time loop why?”

“He’s got a point, Finch.” Cater interrupts before Fusco can retort. “That does sound crazy, even for you.”

“Trust me Detective, I am all too aware. And I suppose I could try and prove it to you by having this conversation with you again in the next iteration,  however if it’s all the same to you I’d rather get this over with before this iteration ends. So for the time being, please humour me.”

After a moment of consideration and with obvious remaining scepticism, Carter nods their assent for the both of them. “Alright. But that still doesn’t explain why you’d want to talk to her of all people, and why you need us to request her fake ID’s employee file. Not that I don’t appreciate you trying not to break too many laws this time, but wouldn’t you usually just hack them?”

“To be quite honest, I’ve done my best to find out what causes our predicament, but I’ve had no success in that matter and I am simply out of ideas now. If there is someone who could show me this problem in a different light, I believe it would be her. Besides, I know she’s in possession of other information that may become helpful in other ways. As for accessing her alias’ records myself, she has taken certain precautions with digital information that would take me several days to safely circumvent, and like I said, I’d rather get this over with as soon as possible. A routine request for a government employee’s file is less likely to immediately attract her attention, and I like to think that I know better than not to take any possible precaution where she is concerned.”

“You think she could be looped like you and John?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. I believe it’s highly unlikely, but I won’t dismiss the possibility until I know for certain. Either way, if there is any way she may help us resolve this matter, it’s worth the risk of meeting her. So, will you help me?”

Carter sighs, expression conflicted and not meeting Harold’s eyes for a moment, but he knows this to mean she has already decided to follow his request. “Thank you.” he tells her quietly, sincerely.

“Are you sure you don’t need backup? You should at least tell John where you’re going.”

“Quite sure, but I appreciate your concern. I already have a contingency in place.”

“Are we really gonna let him go off on his own like that?” Fusco cuts in, addressing his partner before turning to Harold. “You know Mr Tall, Dark and Grumpy won’t be happy about this.”

“Yes, I know.” The memory of John’s still body in the cold morgue flashes across his mind’s eye and has him swallowing thickly. He thinks about John’s hand lying cold in his own, and about the warm embrace they’d shared yesterday morning. About just far he would be prepared to go to protect John, even from his own recklessness. “Another risk well worth taking if it lets us find a way to stop these loops, or at least gives us some answers.”

Evidently having somewhat recovered from his incredulity, Fusco cuts in with a smirk “You ever consider that the solution to Groundhog Day was true love? Maybe instead of talking to the nutball who kidnapped you, you and poor Wonderboy just need to make out more!”

Speechless, Harold watches Carter elbow Fusco, as his mind is busy trying to process the – surely joking – suggestion, uncertain as to whether to react with outrage or confusion or denial. Anything rather than focussing on the slowly sinking feeling of dread settling in Harold’s abdomen, because if Fusco – by all means skilled a detective as he may be, he isn’t exactly trained in international espionage – has noticed Harold’s feelings for John, there is no conceivable way someone as observant as John himself is unaware.

He pushes the thought down along with the cold dread, hoping it at least isn’t all too obvious how unsettled he is. “It is my understanding that true love generally requires reciprocity, and while it is no more my place than yours to speculate about Mr Reese’s personal feelings, I highly doubt he...” Even knowing he will be the only one to remember this interaction come Wednesday, he trails off, mortification warming his cheeks as he is all too aware of the undeservedly defensive tone he has taken. After all, his heartache is neither Fusco’s fault nor problem to deal with.

The detective however seems to take no offence, instead the expression of disbelief has once more found its way onto his face. “You serious? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius!”

Harold frowns. “Excuse me? I don’t believe I quite follow.”

The sight of a half-suppressed grin tugging at Carter’s lips only adds to his confusion, as does her holding her hand out towards her partner. “Pay up, Fusco. I told you he has no idea.”

“No idea about what?”

“Come on, Carter, there’s no way he hasn’t noticed! There’s _no way_ they’re not...” Now Carter does grin, while Fusco digs his wallet from his pocket, placing a 20 dollar note into Carter’s waiting hand. “Fine.” he grumbles. “But you’re getting take-out the next time we’re stuck with paperwork all night.”

“Could you please explain to me what on earth this is about?”

At last, Fusco returns his attention to Harold. “It’s about how the hell you never realised...” To Harold’s frustration, that is as far as he gets before Carter grabs his arm and starts pulling him back towards the precinct, throwing a mischievous smile in Harold’s direction.

“We’ll get you that file in a few hours!” she calls cheerfully.

“Oh come on,” Harold can only just pick up Fusco grumble good-naturedly, “I’m pretty sure being a pain in my ass is their hobby, and you’ve gotta go and ruin my first real chance to get back at Mr Happy.”

Carter laughs, but Harold can’t make out her reply, For a moment, he contemplates calling after them, demanding an explanation, though the knowledge that this would most likely be futile keeps him silent, along with the shameful reluctance to examine the thought of them being aware of his feelings for John any closer than he needs to. When he almost thinks he can hear Fusco sing-songing _“Wonderboy and Glasses, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”_ in the distance, he resolves to ignore that as well, even as he feels warmth flushing his face. After all, he will have to face John again today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this story! I hope this was an adequate fix? As always, comments are my lifeblood and I will be eternally grateful for any :D


	6. 34 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the Root chapter! For the record, I adore Root, but Harold's still rather wary of her, so he might seem a little harsh at times.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Unlike in New York, Friday afternoons in Washington DC are rainy as well. Fine drops litter the window of the small apartment – cast in shadows since Harold forewent turning on the lights as to not warn its usual occupant in advance – capturing the reflections of the lights of the traffic as tiny sparks in them. Soon, the street lights will flicker on, but he doesn’t know when precisely. A bird flies by in a pattern he has never seen before, dark against the cloudy sky. The sudden, unexpected sound of a car horn below has him startle and he swallows, focusing on his breathing in hopes of calming his heart rate, calming the panic that has lived in the back of his mind ever since they’d boarded his private jet this morning.

Originally, he had planned to persuade John to stay behind in New York, to work Margarita’s case – hardly a case anymore, really, more of a ritual, a life saved as part of going through a set of preordained motions, a view of matters that should worry him, but he has more important ones to focus on – but unsurprisingly, John refused, and as much as Harold still feels torn between the constant need to reassure himself that his partner is well and breathing instead of lying cold and still on an autopsy table, and the instinct to avoid him until he has processed yesterday’s conversation with the detectives, he is glad for it now.

Glancing down the street towards the corner where he knows John waits in their hired car feels like his only anchor when the world around him – filled with events he hasn’t witnessed before as he has never been to DC on Friday, new and unpredictable and raw, and a part of him wonders if he has always lived like this, if it used to feel like this before his life became a potentially endless series of iterations, of minor variations on a three-day theme – has him feeling off-kilter and anxious. Or perhaps it’s only the knowledge of whom he will once again meet any moment now.

And think of the devil, there is a scratch like noise coming from the door, unused keys from the wad scraping against its painted wood as the right one slides into the lock, turns, opens it with a soft click that rings loud as a gunshot to Harold’s ears in the silent apartment. Cold sweat covers his palms and he briefly traces the outline of the phone in the pocket of his slacks, reminding himself that he merely needs to blindly press a single button to speed-dial John, resisting the impulse to touch his earpiece as well.

Another click and the lights turn on, followed by unhurried, high-heel clad footsteps, meaning that as Harold hoped, she indeed isn’t aware of his presence just yet. Her apartment’s security measures were impressive, but ultimately no match for him. He takes this as his clue to turn around, the outside slowly growing darker beyond the windows behind him. He clasps his hands together behind his back, to have something to do with them as well as hide them should they betray him and shake with anxiety. There is, however, little point in attempting to hide his overall tension.

The footsteps draw near and then Harold is facing the small calibre handgun she is pointing at him, her purse clattering to the ground, various items rolling over the timber flooring. For the briefest moment, a range of expressions flicker over her face, surprise, delight, confusion, suspicion, then anything genuine is hidden behind an impenetrable mask of false congeniality.

“Good afternoon, Ms Groves.” he greets her, voice cold, giving nothing away. “Or should I say, Ms May?”

A smile spreads over her face, looking almost childlike if something about it didn’t seem so _wrong_. “Harold! What a lovely surprise! And please, call me Root.”

It is pure hypocrisy for him of all people to begrudge someone their choosing of their own name, he is well aware, but everything in him bristles against the implications behind this one. Hardly even a name, almost more a title, and he has no wish to grant her the power of it while she still is the occasional subject of his nightmares. Still, he reminds himself, he needs her. _John_ needs her, because she likely has information Harold can use to keep him safe. Indulging her seems like a small price to pay.

“Very well, _Root_.” his voice is still perfectly calm, even as the scar on his right palm stings with the phantom pain of the razor blade she drew it with, but it’s with cautious satisfaction that he watches her mask thin, some of her earlier, genuine delight bleeding through even as wary caution lingers thick in the air of the room.

“Come on, Harry, why don’t you sit down, make yourself comfortable. Standing on that leg of yours for too long must hurt.”

There is a small dining area to his right, a few metres from the window, simple but tasteful upholstery, the kind of elegance one might find in a magazine. Impersonal. Root gives him another smile before tucking her weapon away, knowing he poses no physical threat to her, and walks over to pull one of the chairs out for him.

Harold hesitates, feeling vulnerable enough just standing here in her presence, even with the illusion of being able to run soothing some of his animal instinct. Still, he aims to mollify her, and so he slowly makes his way over, ignoring his chronic pain to lessen his limp as much as his body allows. She looks pleased when he sits in the chair she offered him.

“Can I get you something? Coffee, or, no, you’re a tea person, aren’t you? You really should have called ahead, I would have stocked up on all your favourites.”

“How considerate.” he can’t help but retort, voice dripping with sarcasm, before he forces himself to calm, fingertips tracing his phone where she can’t see. He thinks of John, after he’d saved him from Root’s grasp, thinks of the way neither of them had seemed to want to leave the other’s side more than absolutely necessary for several following days. Of the infinite gentleness and patience John treated him with, still does, even though the kidnapping seems so long ago now, hazy around the edges and almost surreal, like much of the time before the loops. “No, thank you.” he finally answers.

“Or something to eat, maybe? I hope you aren’t in a hunger strike this time around. I make a killer carrot soup with crème fraîche.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I seem to have not much of an appetite today.”

The subtle jab is lost on her, but she does seem somewhat disappointed, even as she shrugs, turning towards where according to the blueprints of this apartment, the kitchen should be. “Suit yourself. I’ll be right back, don’t run off.”

As she leaves the room – though he wouldn’t preclude the possibility that she has surveillance set up throughout her flat, he still feels watched – he has to resist the temptation of calling John, wishing to be anywhere but here, wishing he, despite the rationality of that decision, hadn’t chosen to face her alone.

Soon enough she returns, a perfectly, downright unnaturally evenly red apple in her hand. Outside the street lights flicker on, their reflection glinting off the edge of the small but surely razor sharp kitchen knife held in her other hand. With another smile thrown his way, she sits down at the table opposite him. The tip of the knife slices into the red skin of the apple, cutting a delicate little wedge from it, offering it to him before eating it herself with a dainty pout when he makes no move to take it.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, Harry, but I have to say, I am a little surprised. Did you change your mind about joining me in finding your Machine and taking it from those who don’t deserve access to a miracle like her?”

She seems to aim for neutrality, but for a fraction of a moment, there is a sliver of hope in her eyes, and it reveals a glimpse of the child she once was. Lost and untethered in a world of bad code. For this fraction of a moment, she looks incredibly lonely. It doesn’t match the monster he has built her up into in his nightmares. Then the moment has passed, she cuts into her apple again and all Harold can picture is the ruthless woman who tortured and short Denton Weeks before his eyes.

“I’m afraid not, although I do need your help, if you’re amenable.”

“Well, you did make me curious now.”

Once again, he finds himself hesitating, studying her. If she were exempt from the loops like John and himself – something the part of him that is terrified of her, that built her up into that monster haunting him, wants to expect – she would have known Harold to be so as well by his unprecedented appearance here today alone, would likely suspect it to be the reason he is here, but she seems genuinely curious, waiting for an explanation she cannot seem to guess at. And hopefully, if he is right, she will reset to Wednesday like the rest of the world.

“I would like your opinion on a rather strange matter.” he tells her, takes a deep breath, and begins explaining the situation and his own theories.

Surprisingly – or perhaps not all that much so, there still is the same fascination, the same unnerving admiration, almost hero worship in her eyes as when she took him – she accepts his words as the truth much more easily than the detectives had yesterday, listening attentively and soon enough adding her own views. He disagrees with many of them, but a different perspective is what he came here to find and as they talk,  for a fleeting moment he thinks that in another life they may have indeed become friends.

* * *

 It’s nearly an hour into their increasingly lively discussion when his earpiece distracts him with the alert of an incoming call. One of the detectives must have informed John of his plans after all, though Harold cannot find it in himself to be irritated, not when the memory of them with their eyes red from crying over John’s death is still so fresh in his mind. They simply care. He spends a second weighing his options, then opts for simplicity.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Harold stands without waiting for an answer, but Root makes no move to stop him when he turns towards the kitchen, both of them well aware that from there he couldn’t leave the apartment without going past her. He wonders if she’d simply let him go this time if he were to express his desire to leave. Unlikely, he thinks.

The kitchen is similar to the rest of the flat, clean and decorated with a simple elegance and no hint of personality. A temporary place of residence, not a home. Lifting his hand to his earpiece, he answers the call, a profound sense of reassurance flooding him the moment the connection is established.

“ _Root_ , Finch? That’s who you’re talking to? You told me you’d be safe! I’m coming for you.” John’s voice is a low growl, anger evident, but it’s a thin layer that doesn’t disguise the fear underneath and Harold rushes to reassure him.

“I understand your reservations, Mr Reese, and under ordinary circumstances I’d more than share them, but as unlikely as it may seem, I can promise you she has no intention of harming me. But I doubt she would have such scruples where you are concerned, so please, in the interest of avoiding unnecessary bloodshed...”

“She hurt you once already, Harold, I’m not about to let her do that again.”

“John. I promise you I am in no danger at this moment, and I would prefer it if you could stay out of danger as well. Her apartment is number 5C, but please, wait for me outside. At the latest, I will be perfectly safe and sound on Wednesday.” he implores. The sight of John in the morgue is still too fresh on his mind, and although that of Denton Weeks’ body quaking with the force of the bullets entering it is starting to fade marginally, he knows that Root wouldn’t hesitate to do this to John.

“What if you’re right and this time, there’s no next Wednesday? You know she won’t just let you go. I barely got to you at the train station in time!”

Harold turns towards the kitchen window, eyes searching the street until he can see their car, halting in a free space directly across the street, can only just make out the shadow of his partner’s silhouette in it. It is a scenario he has considered and he wishes he could tell John the details of his contingencies, of his instructions for the Machine, but alas the chance of Root having some kind of surveillance inside her own apartment is too much of a risk.

“If so, I have the utmost faith that you will find me, and I have done my best to ensure that this time, you would have all the assistance you could possibly need. For the time being, stay where you are, Mr Reese. As far as I am able to determine, she isn’t exempt from the loops as we are, but she nonetheless has information that could be of use. Information that would take me longer than three days to obtain.” The hint of an order in his voice produces the results he has hoped for, but John’s displeasure and remaining worry is obvious.

“Check in with me every half an hour. You don’t, or you think there’s any sign of trouble, I’m getting you out of there ASAP.”

“Of course.” He is reluctant to end the call and once he has done so, remains by the kitchen window for a moment longer, looking down to where he thinks John’s shadow is, sure he himself has been spotted and is being watched.

When he returns from the kitchen, Root bites into the last slice of apple, the core left on the table, standing upright at a precarious angle. She smiles at him, then morphs her expression into a pout of exaggerated mock-sympathy. “Aw, is your pet having separation anxiety?”

It’s an exercise of will to keep stepping towards her, to reclaim his seat at her table and swallow the several cutting remarks that lie on the tip of his tongue. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that after our last encounter, Mr Reese doesn’t exactly consider you trustworthy.”

Root shrugs. “You know,” she starts, then takes her time eating the last corner of the apple slice, watching Harold for any sign of irritation he is disinclined to let her see. “considering the solution in Groundhog Day, maybe all you need to do is give your loyal helper monkey a kiss.”

Judging by her smirk, he wasn’t quite quick enough in turning his expression of pained surprise into a glare – if after what little amount of time they’ve spent together, she is already aware of his feelings for John, there truly is no hope that John himself is still in the dark. He pushes those thoughts aside, not wanting her to see him rattled in any way. “There is one more thing I need from you.” he changes the subject bluntly. “The people you’ve been tracking down, the ones in charge of the Machine. I need any information you have collected on them so far.”

She tilts her head as if considering when he can already see her disinclination. “That doesn’t seem very fair, me doing all the hard work only for you to go and have all the fun without me.”

“Then please, do tell, what would it take in return for you to consider it a fair exchange?” A deal with the devil, but he forces himself not to tense when she leans forward, a calculating kind of delight joining the admiration glinting in her eyes and he knows he has her, hook, line and sinker.

“I guess you coming back to help me go after the people who took the Machine is out of the question?”

“Naturally.”

She pouts, but the glint remains. “Tell me about how you built her.”

Harold himself leans back as though hesitating, but more to watch her squirm because the doubts he does have – some part of him still thinks his conclusion that she will reset may be inaccurate, another fearing an inconveniently timed Saturday – are negligible compared to his concern for John, his desire to do his utmost to keep him safe. He has sold the world for much less.

“Very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!! I hope you liked it? As always, comments are my lifeblood :)


	7. 35-40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. Sooo... It's been ages and I FORGOT TO UPDATE I AM SO SORRY. Also, this is more of a sort of interlude, so it's ridiculously short, I'm sorry, pls don't kill me.  
> But look, fluff! *shoves this tiny chapter at you as a distraction and runs away*

Wednesday number 35 arrives a few minutes after he has put down the last file Root handed him, and he stops his fingers after they hit three keys, moves to stand as the time switches to 08:38 and the increased discomfort in his left leg has abated to its normal levels by the time the pigeon is out of earshot. It’s a peculiar feeling, to be reasonably well-rested as he is on Wednesday mornings, while still feeling nearly as tense and emotionally exhausted as he did when standing in Root’s apartment mere moments ago.

A second later, John steps into their HQ and the expression of pure relief on his face has a stab of guilt flare up like a splinter in Harold’s heart.

“You okay, Finch?”

“I’m alright, thank you, Mr Reese. And thank you again for your patience yesterday, I realise it must have been difficult to wait outside. But I remained unharmed and more importantly, I have all the information I need.”

“So you won’t have to talk to her again?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Good.” John steps up to the desk, presses the cup of tea into Harold’s hand with a small smile, placing his own hand over Harold’s and giving it a reassuring squeeze, though it is difficult to say for whom it is more so. “You sure you’re alright? I mean...” He withdraws his hand, roughly dragging it over his face, glancing at Harold with anguished eyes that avoid him all too soon. “She _took you_ , Harold!”

“Yes, she did. But even then, when I didn’t intend for you to come after me, I held out hope that you would, and I knew that should it become necessary, you would do so again this time. It was… unnerving, to say the least, to meet her again, but I had no true reason to be afraid of her, because I knew, if so needed, you’d find me again.”

* * *

 

“It’s love that conquers all. You two will be fine, just like me and Esteban.” Margarita tells them as she hugs them goodbye, once more pressing wet kisses to their cheeks, making them promise to visit her again and waving after them until they’re out of sight. It’s the 40th Friday, and while Harold by now knows how to lead the conversation throughout the day to have her cook which meal for them, he has yet to find a way to make their evenings conclude with anything other than this phrase, the hug and the promise they cannot keep until the iterations halt. It occurs to him that he ought to feel guilty for predicting her behaviour, for intentionally steering it as he does.

John wraps an arm around him as they leave the building, wandering aimlessly since they both know it’s too late to reach any of their safe houses or the library before the 40th iteration ends. Walking like this on those Fridays they’ve both spent with Margarita has become something of a habit, a comforting ritual when Harold should by all means feel sick of anything resembling repetition. But John is warm next to him, comfortably silent, open for conversation if Harold wishes to begin one but without expectation, and as long as they walk like this, the air around them feels alive even if the rest of the world doesn’t. Harold counts down the seconds until the cat yowls from a back alley down the street as it always does on Fridays just after the red Toyota drives past them.

“I only saved her to provide Detective Carter with a distraction.” he finds himself saying before he quite realises that he is doing so, heart hammering in his chest as he does realise and waits for John’s reaction to his shameful confession. John only gives him an inquiring look, patiently waiting for Harold to elaborate. He swallows.

“In the 33rd iteration, when you… after you died. I didn’t save the Dawsons and Mr Baker, I never so much as gave them a thought, and on that Friday, I only wanted for Detective Carter to have a break from looking after me, so I gave her the information needed to save Margarita.” Harold has to take a deep breath before he can continue, immeasurably grateful when John only pulls him closer to his side. “They no longer seem quite real to me. Not her, not the Dawsons, not the people who argue two blocks away from the library on Thursdays… They all seem like nothing but white noise. _Irrelevant_. Well, I suppose the detectives not as much, as well as Grace, which I assume is due to my emotional ties to them as opposed to any of the aforementioned individuals, but… Ultimately, it’s you, John. More often than not you are the only one, the only thing that still seems real to me. And even with the information Root provided, I am still no closer to determining how much longer this will go on before it stops, if it indeed ever does so, and if it turns out it won’t, I don’t know if I… How have you been coping with this so remarkably well?”

John smiles at him then, softly, with something like forgiveness, and something almost sad. “I’ve got good company.” he says simply.

“Oh. I’m sorry Mr Reese, I didn’t mean to imply that your company isn’t enough or that you...” Harold hastes to clarify, but John only shakes his head, the same smile still lingering on his lips.

“It’s okay, Harold, I get it. For me it’s… when I get hurt in the field, it doesn’t seem real anymore, doesn’t seem to matter because I’m on my feet again Wednesday, ready to do what needs to be done.”

“Life without consequences. It doesn’t really seem to be all it’s made out to be, does it? This would probably make for a fascinating project for psychological research, though I have to say, I don’t care much at all for being the subject.”

John chuckles softly at Harold’s half-ironic, jokingly serious tone and just for a moment, everything seems right in the world. Then, from the distance, the faint sound of a glass bottle shattering reaches them and Harold sighs, not needing to look at his watch.

“It’s almost time.” He allows himself to lean in when John’s arm gives him a gentle squeeze, gladly soaking up the silent comfort, vowing to himself to never take the man beside him and all he does for him for granted, to never let him become part of the white noise. As though that were even possible. “What if it doesn’t end? What if this is all there will ever be from now on?” His voice is so quiet he almost doesn’t expect the other to hear it.

“You’ll figure something out. And even if there’s nothing you can do, we’ve got each other, we’ll be okay.” It’s obviously little more than empty reassurance, but Harold finds himself wanting to believe every word.

The seconds pass by, and John seems as aware of them as Harold, gives him another gentle squeeze and a soft smile just before the 40th iteration ends. “See you soon.” he murmurs, then his smile is gone, Harold stares at the computer screen and the streetlights have been replaced by morning light filtering through the tarp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *carefully peeks around the corner* Thank you for reading!!! I hope despite the shortness and the long wait, this was enjoyable? If so, I'd love to hear what you think *waves awkwardly and goes back into hiding*


	8. 47 - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I may have been putting off editing posting this for way too long because I'm really uncertain about my Grace characterisation, but she's awesome and I want to do her justice. Oh well, this is as good as it'll get.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this iteration!

It’s on the 47th Thursday that Harold makes a careless mistake. The last five iterations have been uneventful, mostly spent in quiet companionship in the library, John reading – he seems to have taken an interest in Kafka’s works recently, and it has led to some highly enjoyable conversations over take-out – a comforting presence behind him, while Harold has taken to contacting the Machine every Wednesday morning again, analysing scenarios based on Root’s opinions and suggestions, though unsurprisingly to little avail.

His helpless frustration builds with every iteration, sits like an itch underneath his skin, too deep to reach, has him wanting to claw at the endlessly, mindlessly repeating world with the need to make it change. More often than not, he finds himself wanting to insert himself into conversations here and there, to see which words would provoke which response, watching on as he himself stands apart, separated like the user from the code through the plastic of a computer screen, just typing new functions into an existing program. This Thursday, having decided to go for a walk if only to tire himself out physically, he elected to forego taking his umbrella, solely for the change of pace getting soaked would provide.

The usual Thursday pedestrians populate Washington Square Park, eyeing the deep grey clouds thickening overhear with wariness, turning slowly towards the exits of the park in expectation of the rain, separating like a grazing herd with a wolf dropped in their midst, only so much slower. The breeze picks up, rustling the trees, bringing the first drops of fine Thursday drizzle with it

Harold stands, giving himself a moment to enjoy the cold spray if only because he hasn’t done so before, then pulls his phone from his pocket, idly fiddling with it. There is no sense in lying to himself that he wants to call John, to perhaps continue their conversation about Kafka’s The Missing Person, but as every so often at variously inopportune moments, he remembers Fusco’s singing in the distance, _Wonderboy and Glasses, sitting in a tree…_

In some ways, he and John have grown closer, more comfortable with one another in the iterations since their conversation on the 40th Friday. There is a new, if reluctant and almost resigned, acceptance of their situation, and they spend more time together, each acting as the other’s tether to reality. Surely not an entirely healthy development as far as interpersonal relationships are concerned, but it seems to have curbed at least some of John’s recklessness for the time being and as such, Harold is unwilling to question it too much. Save for the moments when he finds himself reminded that John must know about Harold’s feelings for him, starts doubting that their newfound closeness is truly to their mutual benefit, starts suspecting that maybe, it’s to Harold’s benefit alone, out of the endless kindness of John’s heart.

He doesn’t call John. Reluctantly and scolding himself for that reluctance, he pockets his phone after blindly, distractedly turning off an app alerting him to something or other, focuses on the rain. Breathes in the scent of the park, of damp soil and plants and city smog hoping to ground himself in it even as all he smells is Thursday.

It doesn’t take long before he gives up and exits the park with a sigh, crosses the street without looking because the pattern of the traffic is as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. Walks along the familiar red brick houses, trailing his fingertips over the painted black, cast-iron fences. Crosses the street towards the next block, the park at his back. If he returns to the library within the next half an hour, he will be able to pass along the information regarding Margarita’s attackers in time for Detective Carter to make her arrest today, even though a full day without predetermined Friday commitments is hardly something he needs. There is a twinge of guilt when his first thought is that perhaps, he could convince John to spend the day outside of New York, he shouldn’t ask his friend to indulge him more than he already…

“ _Harold?_ ”

The voice comes soft from behind him, freezes his blood in his veins and him in place even as the rational part of him yells at him to keep walking, to pretend to be unaffected as slowly, the realisation sets in that all this never-ending routine has made him careless. But his feet refuse to move, his eyes burn, forcing him to blink the unexpected tears away.

“Harold? Is that you?” Her voice is even quieter now, uncertain and shaking. Car horns sound from the street immediately behind him and for a fraction of a moment, Harold almost expects to next listen to the pigeon fly off, to find himself home and safe and alone in the seconds before John arrives. But it’s Thursday, and Harold’s estimation of the time by his surroundings must have been off by nothing more than half a minute. Sheer carelessness, seemingly too inconsequential to pay attention to, but the ripple effect of this one, for now irrevocably changed variable is already changing this iteration in unprecedented ways. A stronger gust of wind has him shiver with the cold rain it brings. He turns around.

Grace is as radiant as she has always been, more so even, as though she has stepped out from behind the foggy veil the iterations have placed over the world. Untarnished, and nearly painful to look at. She gasps when he finally faces her, makes a small, wounded noise when she takes him in that has his heart break the way it did when he had to break hers in that triage room, stumbling away as she cried. The wind plays with her red hair, her cheeks and nose are lightly flushed from it and the rain, but her hand is pale, outstretched as if to reach for him, skin nearly white and flecked with paint. It’s trembling.

“I’m sorry.” His own voice is just as unsteady and he knows those words are beyond inadequate, but for the moment, he cannot seem to grasp any others. It already seems so improbable that he can speak at all. “I am so sorry, Grace.”

Her expression is one of confusion, of painful disbelief, and she looks so lost that he can’t help but reach out in turn, delicately taking her hand where it still hangs in the air, making her blink as if trying to shake off a dream, staring at it. “What… I… I don’t understand. How…”

Those few who haven’t taken shelter from the weather are beginning to throw looks their way and it shakes Harold out of his stupor for long enough to take a deep breath, to force himself to think. “We should get out of the rain.” he tells her softly, as if she were a bird he doesn’t want to startle. “I believe a full explanation is the very least I owe you, but it’s one better not had out here. Please.”

Grace nods, slowly, eyes hefted once more on his face in disbelief, but she makes no move to resist when he gently starts steering her towards her apartment. Across the street, along the fence and the red brick walls, to the stairs and the white door, paint peeling off in small flecks along the edges, something he has never noticed before. Maybe it wasn’t there the last time he stood so close to this door, or maybe he’d just been to naively happy to notice. Grace’s hand still shakes, so Harold takes the key from her, his own not exactly steady either but enough so to unlock the door.

The walls are the same soft, friendly yellow they used to be when this place was _theirs_ , not only hers. Most of the furniture has remained as well though some has been rearranged and Harold has to swallow around a lump in his throat when he spots all the details he had forgotten, their memory ground down and faded to lethe with the passage of time but now resurfacing, and others where he is unsure whether they’ve changed. The picture of Grace kissing his temple is still in the same place by the window it has always been. There is a strange sense of nostalgia in being here, like dreaming of one’s childhood home, unable to shake the vague feeling of wrongness throughout the dream and waking up only to feel homesick.

By muscle memory he is surprised to find still exists, he steers Grace towards the kitchen. It takes him a moment to locate the coffee machine once she sits down at the kitchen table, and after a moment of deliberation, he makes himself a cup as well. He stopped drinking coffee after the bombing, the pain of missing her too sharp whenever he did try, but it seems like a moot point now.

“Thank you.” she murmurs when Harold hands her her cup, barely audible, still sounding small and lost. It reminds him too much of the sound of her voice when she was looking for him in the triage room and he wants to apologise again, but the words are stuck in his throat, bitter like the coffee he is no longer used to drinking. Slowly, Grace seems to thaw from her shock, gaze sharper as she studies him again, but still looking lost and confused, disbelieving. Harold takes a breath, prepares to begin his story, but the words desert him, and finally, it’s Grace who breaks the tense silence.

“No one but me showed up. To your memorial. I couldn’t have a funeral because they didn’t find your body, so after you… After you were declared dead, I organised a memorial. Put an advert in the newspaper, and I waited for someone to come, a friend maybe, or a coworker, or even just a casual acquaintance, but no one came. Only me, standing there next to the little cross I put up because a gravestone didn’t seem right.” She meets his eyes then, hers filled with incomprehension, begging for answers he knows cannot possibly be sufficient and he feels like breaking down into tears as he realises anew how deeply he has hurt her.

“I...” Yet another apology lies on his tongue, then he shakes his head at himself, ignoring the twinge of protest from his fused spine. “I suppose I ought to start at the beginning.”

“Beginning of what?”

He can’t seem to think of an adequate answer to that question. “My name isn’t Harold Martin.” he says finally, because it seems as good a starting point as any. Grace flinches, hurt obvious on her face, painted there like the flecks of colour on her hands, but it takes only a moment for her to regain her composure.

“What is it?”

“It’s… For the longest time, it used to be Harold Wren. These days, I suppose Harold Finch will do. At least it’s the closest thing I have a to something I’d consider my name, rather than just another alias. I erased all traces of the name I was born under in 1974, after I was charged with treason for...” he trails off, unable to meet her gaze any longer, letting out a rueful chuckle at his long past self. “Well, it’s rather a long story. To put it this way, I have always been rather good with computers...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! Also, happy slightly belated Easter for those who celebrate! If it's not too much trouble, I'd be delighted if you could hide a comment on here for me :D (I'd take chocolate eggs too, but comments are the best!)


	9. 47 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter wait this time, seeing as this fandom seems to have been rather quiet for a while... (*looks pleadingly at fandom* gimme new Rinch fics pls, I need)
> 
> So I hope you'll enjoy part two of #gracedeservesbetter (because I adore Harold fiercely, but... I also love Grace and she deserves better) :D

His throat is long sore by the time dawn breaks over New York this Friday, Grace’s eyes are still reddened just as he is sure his own are, but she seems calmer now, settled, though still watching him with lingering disbelief from the chair opposite the one he is sitting in. They haven’t left the kitchen and the coffee powder has nearly run out and Harold feels jittery, emotionally scraped raw, like nerves exposed to each shift in the air without the skin to protect them.

“Are you sure you don’t want ice for that?” Grace asks sheepishly, and he gives her a reassuring, if slightly hesitant, smile.

The realisation that he truly is alive and in front of her set in as he told her about building up IFT with Nathan. She had gotten up, stony-faced, and slapped him before starting to cry, fingers digging into the wool of his suit, holding on. Since he, a few hours later, had told her of Nathan’s death and his injuries, she has been shooting slightly guilty glances at his left cheek. It feels warm, and surely there must be the shape of her slim hand imprinted on his pale skin, but he barely feels the sting there, nor the one the impact left in his neck.

“Thank you, but it’s alright.” Despite that hint of guilt in her eyes, she hasn’t apologised and Harold’s smile becomes a little more confident, knowing she has no intention of doing so. They both know this is the very least he deserved, it was already enough to calm her somewhat and he is glad to know that even if it weren’t for the iterations, she wouldn’t feel guilty about it for too long. He wants to apologise again, but the doorbell interrupts him.

“I should...” She stands, but hesitates in the doorway and Harold can’t help but think of John’s pale face in the morgue, of how his heart had kept speeding with anxiety whenever John left his sight for too long the following Wednesday. His own guilt lies heavy in his stomach. Grace looks relieved when he joins her, follows her towards the front door, staying out of sight of it, but close enough that Grace will be able to see him out of the corner of her eye.

She opens the door, her body language indicating that she knows whoever is out there, and it takes Harold a moment to recognise the hesitant voice of Mr Blakely.

“Hi, Grace. I… uhm. I saw you yesterday afternoon, and you… Well. You looked like you’ve seen a ghost, so I figured I’d check in, see if you’re alright?”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you. I’m alright, I just… Someone came by, someone I… An old friend I haven’t seen in a long time and didn’t expect to run into.”

To Harold’s surprise, warmth floods him at the term _friend_. Unearned and undeserved as it is, it makes something in him hope that perhaps, one day, if he should be so lucky, he could actually earn her friendship. It would be a second chance he is far from sure he is worthy of, but for just a moment, the thought alone lets him feel something close to peace.

“Alright then. Just… You look a bit upset. Anything I could do for you? I mean, if you need to talk...”

“Thanks Thomas, but I’ll be fine. Just some heavy conversation and a lack of sleep, that’s all.”

They bid each other goodbye, with a tentative agreement to make plans to meet for coffee over the weekend, Grace hesitant, though Harold isn’t sure if it’s due to his presence or that he has told her about the loops, about how, at least to him and John, there hasn’t been a weekend in nearly five months. Only Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Repeat.

When she turns back to him, there is a slight, healthy flush on her cheeks, a hint of a smile playing around the corner of her lips. A certain familiar look in her eyes, one he recognises from the earliest days of their acquaintance that he knows, with a mix of melancholia and acceptance and happiness for her, no longer belongs to him now. She ducks her head, hiding the expression from him, tension lining her slight frame as she heads back towards the kitchen.

“I’m glad.” he tells her, not needing to elaborate. Even after the conversation that lasted the entire night, after all his confessions and apologies and explanations, after every last secret revealed with complete honesty, this may be the most heartfelt thing he has said to her today.

Grace looks at him with surprise, but the smile widens. “Is it that obvious?”

“I wouldn’t know, quite possibly only to me. I recognise that look.” He hands her one more mug of coffee, the last one he could convince the coffee machine to produce before the ground coffee ran out. It looks a little thin, but at some point while they talked it has become more of an emotional crutch than a drink to both of them.

“And if it’s any reassurance, as far as I am able to tell, he is one of the good ones. A success rate on the upper end of average, the vast majority of his clients speak highly of him, no criminal record aside from a few minor, youthful delinquencies, no hidden past, not big secrets. An ordinary life.” A life like the one he’d longed for, like the one he thought he could build at Grace’s side. An idea he still looks at with fondness and a last trace of longing, but he knows he would no longer exchange such a life for the quiet afternoons in the library, for mornings with Sencha Green and donuts.

“I think I should be saying something about you looking into someone’s life like that.” It’s a half-hearted recrimination at best, and then she looks at him, and for the first time, there is no obvious, immediate heartache in her eyes when they meet his. She smiles, hesitantly. “What about you? Is there someone in your life now? What about that partner of yours?” By the look she gives him, she already knows the answer. Harold feels his face warm where it isn’t already reddened from the slap, even as he can’t quite help his own smile.

“Am I really that obvious?” he echoes back at her.

“To me, yeah. I know that look on your face.”

“I suppose there is little sense in denying it then. Of course, I don’t believe this is something I should act on even if I did have any reason to hope he may return my… feelings for him.” It’s strange to say it out loud so bluntly, though he feels lighter for it. “Non-traditional arrangement or not, he is my employee after all, besides, I wouldn’t want to risk damaging our work relationship or our friendship by making him more uncomfortable that I possibly already have. Especially not now, considering that our situation makes us rather reliant on one another. Plus, I’m fairly certain he already knows how I feel about him and has be courteous enough not to mention anything, so I’d rather let the matter lie.”

Grace’s smile is half teasing, half sympathetic and for a moment it almost feels like it used to, talking to her this openly, knowing he has her understanding, has someone he can ask for advice. “I don’t know, you can be pretty charming, Harold. And you know, given that this situation of yours sounds a lot like Groundhog Day...”

He shakes his head, grateful for her encouragement but disagreeing. “You know, you’ve actually met him once.”, he attempts to slightly change the subject before he can think too much about the likelihood of John already knowing how he feels.

“What? When?”

“A few… weeks ago.” It’s worrying to realise that he isn’t sure, that it has become hard to measure longer stretches of time in anything but iterations. It’s worrying to realise that it feels strange to him that time used to flow steadily in one direction, never repeating, a stream instead of a maelstrom. “Not as John Reese, of course. I believe he visited as a Detective Stills? Claiming there was a report of some disturbance? He has been trying rather tenaciously to find out where I live.”

Grace thinks for a moment, then gives him a small, teasing grin. It lights her up, lets her eyes shine and Harold wishes he could preserve this moment in some tangible way. “Oh, I remember him! Tall, greying hair, nice suit?”

“Yes, that would be him.”

“Hm." She smirks, eyes glittering. "He _is_ handsome, I’ll give you that.”

“He certainly is. And so is Mr Blakely.”

The faint blush returns, but then Grace’s expression falls, something bitter and hurt about it once more. “I’m glad for you too, you know. Glad that you’re not alone. You deserve to have someone too. I’m not forgiving you. I gave you my trust, and you know how very hard that is for me, and you broke it anyway. And I understand why you did it, I do, and looking back on it all now, I know there were times you wanted to tell me, times you almost did tell me despite not being ready for that. And I am incredibly happy you’re alive and okay, but all that doesn’t change that you broke my heart and I am so, _so_ angry that you made me think I’d lost you. And I think that given time, I could forgive you someday, and I’d like to have you in my life then, as my friend. But if what you said is true, if all this will start all over again on Wednesday for you and I won’t remember anything… I can’t forgive you in a day. So just promise me one thing, Harold.”

“Anything.” He means it.

“I know I can’t convince you that you don’t need to protect me, and honestly, I’m not even sure that you don’t need to, maybe you’re right, maybe it would be too much of a risk, not just for me but for you too. And I can’t make that decision for you, just like you shouldn’t have made it for me. But either way,  promise me that one day, the moment it’s safe enough for you to do so, you’ll come to me and tell me you’re alive. That you’ll tell me everything again, and let me have a chance to be angry at you, to get to know you again, and maybe, to forgive you. You owe me that.”

“I do. For honesty’s sake, I don’t know how long it will be, or even if it will ever be safe enough to know about myself and the Machine, or if I will still be alive at that point. But if it ever is safe enough, it would be my privilege to do so. I promise.”

* * *

It’s already nearly a quarter past nine in the evening when he arrives back at the library, tired and raw but content in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t sure he would make it here in time, but even fatigued as he is after spending the entire night before and the following day talking, being at the very least passingly familiar with the precise flow of the Friday traffic afforded him a fairly quick drive.

As he hoped – expected, really, because John is always reliable, and his heart fills with something familiarly warm and tender, but more settled now, with Grace’s blessing – he isn’t alone. The reading lights left from the days when the library was used for its intended purpose illuminate the room warmly, even with the colder glow from his workstation where the Machine displays the results of its analysis. John looks up from where he has nearly finished reading The Missing Person, greeting Harold with a warm smile and concern shimmering in his eyes.

“You alright? How are you feeling.”

As he considers the question, he lets the familiarity of this place wash over him, lets it wash away the lingering sense of surrealism that pervaded his visit to Grace’s apartment, the one that had once been his as well, lets it cover the emotional rawness like a soothing balm. “Yes, I’m alright, thank you. Somewhat exhausted, but it was… _good_ to talk to her.”

John nods, smile twitching into something Harold can’t seem to identify. “Are you visiting her again next loop?”

“No. I will miss her, and I will miss being able to talk to her the way I did today. And I promised her that one day, should it be safe enough to do so, I’ll contact her again, and perhaps she and I could become friends someday. But not before then. As glad as I am to have gotten to speak to her, to have gained a little more closure, I have no intention of disrupting her life like this again. It wouldn’t be fair to her, when she doesn’t have the time to process it and find closure of her own.”

John looks contemplative but an almost imperceptibly hint of tension seems to fade from his posture, and Harold has the intention to ask him what’s on his mind. He takes a breath, but time has slipped by too quickly, it’s 16 minutes and 49 seconds past 9 and the iteration ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with my nonsensical updating schedule! Please tell me what you think about the story so far and/or this chapter, comments are balm for my soul :)


	10. 50 - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves from my last few hours of introvert-hell aka a 4 people shared dorm*  
> Ahem. So... It's been ages. But! As sad as I am that my travelling's coming to an end and I have to go back home, I'll also finally have some privacy again, so hopefully I'll have more energy for editing and posting stuff. Maybe. I'll try.
> 
> But before you murder me for the lack of updates, look, all the fluff and UST!!! *shoves this chapter at you and runs*

Harold’s fingers still after typing three digits. The car horn sounds. The tarp crinkles as the pigeon flies by. It’s Wednesday.

Five seconds later, John’s footsteps begin to near from the hallway and after another two, he strolls into the room, looking by all means as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, but Harold nonetheless sees the minuscule tension in his shoulders.

“Morning Harold.” he greets him cheerfully, flirtatious smile in place, stepping close to hand Harold his tea. “Happy 50th loop!”

Harold side-eyes him. “I’m not entirely certain I would classify this as a happy occasion, Mr Reese. Especially since I am still no closer to finding a way to resolve this situation and I have started to feel like my sanity doesn’t appreciate the endless repetition.”

Having ensured that the cup is safely in Harold’s hand, John’s fingers briefly caress his as he turns, perching on the edge of the desk and Harold takes a sip of the tea – irritatingly perfect, as per usual – and silently waits for John to tell him whatever has him so obviously anxious.

“That’s why you need a break. I figured we could mark the occasion with a sort of weekend trip, maybe to some place by the sea, get away from all this. Carter and Fusco can handle the numbers, and we could get back in time to have dinner with Margarita on Friday.”

“A weekend trip? It may have escaped your notice, but for the past five months, weekends have no longer existed, which is part of our predicament. Which I would like to try and finally make some progress towards resolving.”

“Thought you were the one who insisted I got you this tea just this morning.” John teases, unfazed by Harold’s scepticism. “And we could just pretend. Get out of the city, go somewhere we haven’t spent any of the loops yet, pretend it’s Saturday for a change. I’ve gotta admit, I’ve been starting to feel a little stir-crazy, and I think a bit of change would do you some good too. Things here can wait.”

Harold takes a moment to study John, to think back to the last few iterations. Thankfully, John has displayed less recklessness than on previous occasions, but there has been a slowly accumulating tension in them both individually and between them. As always, he tries to gauge whether John’s suggestion is to both their benefit or – due to John’s ever selflessly caring nature – mainly to Harold’s, but there is something openly hopeful in John’s expression and once he allows himself to imagine this brief vacation, the idea becomes impossible to resist. “I suppose you do have a point.”

John’s delight and relief assures him he has made the right choice and when John asks him what he will need in an overnight bag, Harold doesn’t hesitate to start gathering the essentials. Twenty minutes later they slide into one of Harold’s cars with anticipatory smiles.

* * *

The good mood lasts until they arrive at the hotel of Harold’s choosing, a few hours south of New York.

“I’m sorry sir, other than a double room, we’re fully booked today. Though we do have additional openings on Monday?” The receptionist gives them an apologetic look.

Harold sighs, mentally cataloguing the other hotels he knows of in this area, hoping to think of something suitable. “The perils of last-minute travel.” he comments to John, at the very same moment as John says “We’ll take it.” and hands the receptionist one of his credit cards, making the suggestions of possible alternatives die unspoken on the tip of Harold’s tongue.

The receptionist must look as surprised as Harold himself does, though she is quicker to recover and a moment later, a key card lies in Harold’s hand and a bellhop takes his small suitcase, accompanying them to the elevator at the end of the lobby. The ride upwards is silent, he gives John a questioning glance, then keeps an eye on the other out of the corner of his vision when he gains no answer. John’s gaze never strays from the doors of the elevator, or from the hallway in front of them once they open. His face is stoic, expressionless in a way it rarely is anymore these days, at least to Harold, and a faint sense of worry forms in the back of Harold’s mind.

The bellhop unlocks the door to their room, thanking Harold profusely when he hands him a 50 dollar bill as tip, then hurries back down the hallway, leaving them alone. John still isn’t looking at him. Instead, the former operative cautiously heads into the room, moving as though clearing it, then stepping up to the balcony, peeking through the heavy curtains before opening them. Surely, no danger lurks here, but Harold is hardly in any position to judge someone’s sense of caution.

Having ensured they are truly alone, John returns, picking up both their luggage and storing it in the wardrobe, unpacking Harold’s suit for him and hanging it up neatly.

“Thank you.” Harold murmurs, feeling as though there suddenly is something strangely intimate to the situation, although that might well be a figment of his imagination. John only nods, then steps into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving Harold alone to explore the room.

It is a nice enough hotel, not the height of luxury but the furniture looks well kept and the room is clean and airy, the walls kept mostly in soft beiges with accents set in the same blue as the curtains and furniture, giving it a refined maritime ambience. A large flat-screen stands atop a real wood counter, the couch table top is glass, so clean Harold fears stumbling into it at some point will be inevitable. It’s elegant, simplistic, anonymous. A part of him misses the homely clutter of the library.

In his attempt to avoid focusing on the bed – a double bed, temptingly comfortable looking, with a dark blue comforter and beige pillows – he crosses the room and steps out onto the balcony, breathing in the sea-fresh, fragrant air. His hands find the metal handrail that sits on top of the glass balustrade. It’s cold, damp and with a slightly sticky feeling to it from the sea salt clinging to its surface that not even the most thorough housekeeping service could keep at bay for long. He can see the ocean in not too far distance, waves looking rough and gunmetal grey against the cloudy horizon. Seagulls cry overhead, and Harold watches them for a moment, sees them dance in patterns that look unnatural to him in their unpredictability.

He senses more than hears John approach, who takes his place next to Harold, standing close enough that Harold thinks even the cold sea wind won’t cause him discomfort any time soon. They spend a few minutes in companionable silence.

“See anything interesting?” John breaks it eventually, but when Harold looks at him, he still won’t meet his gaze. It leaves Harold unable to resist the temptation to let his own linger a moment longer than strictly appropriate, and when he turns it back towards the sea, the view no longer seems quite as beautiful in comparison.

“I suppose. At least, I see something I haven’t seen fifty times already, which arguably is of great interest these days.”

John hums agreeably. “It’s Saturday.”

Finally, when Harold can’t help but huff a laugh in response, John glances at him, something warm and content in his eyes. “You are going to have to work a little harder than that to convince me, Mr Reese.”

“Planning on it. How about we go and see that view up close?”

John closes the balcony door behind them once they’ve stepped back into the room as Harold double checks whether he has their key cards as he knows he does, avoiding anything beyond the briefest glance toward that bed. They leave with an unspoken agreement that this topic will remain untouched until further notice.

* * *

The sand feels pleasantly cool beneath Harold’s feet, the give with each step slows him down further than his limp ordinarily does, but they are in no hurry and he offers reassurance via a smile for each concerned glance John gives him, grateful when the other accepts it silently. An ice cream cone is in his right hand, John having run over to the small boardwalk to buy them though he has finished his already, pretending not to see the playfully reprimanding look Harold gave him for rushing through it. Though now Harold does have to privately admit the wisdom of such hurry. The weather has cleared up considerably, and for the second time, a drop of melted ice cream makes its way down the cone and onto his fingers. With a huff, he switches it to his free hand, licking the drop away.

Beside him, John turns his gaze away to the expanse of the ocean with a smile. His slacks are rolled up, as are Harold’s own, gathering sand in the folds nonetheless and a part of him disapproves such treatment of their suits, but he has conceded to John’s point that any irreparable damage will be gone soon enough. Still, he feels a twinge of regret for having carelessly left their shoes in the sand where a handful of stairs leads down from the boardwalk into the sand.

Leisurely, they make their way to the waterfront until the cold sea is licking at Harold’s feet, the stronger waves splashing up to his ankles, cold enough to start numbing his skin after a few minutes. The wind has subsided somewhat, though it’s still noticeably present, the slightly stronger gusts ruffling John’s salt-and-pepper hair and letting the fine spray of the breaking waves catch between the strands. For a moment, Harold can almost convince himself that it must be Saturday.

“Thank you, John, this weekend trip was an excellent idea. It _is_ good to be out of the city.” There is something unsettling in the unpredictability of his surroundings once again, but in John’s company, unlike in Root’s, he finds he doesn’t mind.

“Weekend trip, huh?”

“Seeing as we did make our way all the way out here, I may as well get into the spirit.”

Just then, another wave makes the water splash up high enough to reach Harold’s slacks and he lets out in involuntary yelp. It prompts John to grin, but Harold’s answering mock-glare only lasts until he sees that John’s – him standing a step closer to the waterfront – are soaked to the knees, and in the end he merely raises an eyebrow, and amused smile of his own playing around his lips.

Unsurprisingly, rather than having taught John his lesson in regards to his proximity to the water, he only steps closer to it, now heedless of his clothes, and his slacks are wet to his mid-thighs before he turns back to Harold.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Doubtful. Although I do have my suspicions, and if they should prove to be correct, I believe your idea is an ill advised one.”

John’s grin only widens before he jogs out of the shallow water and comes to a halt next to Harold, hands already reaching for the buttons of his white shirt. Harold turns away once the amount of tan skin broken by numerous scars on display becomes too tantalising. Within a minute, he has efficiently stripped down to plain, black boxer briefs that Harold, once he turns back, has to admit do most likely pass for swimwear as long as no one looks too closely.

“Mr Reese,” Harold admonishes once more, though it’s a halfhearted attempt at best, more of a token protest. Such lighthearted joy gleams in John’s usually guilt-clouded eyes, and the idea of diminishing any of it seems unbearable. “I believe considering the temperature, this is a terrible idea. Besides, we didn’t bring any towels to warm you back up afterwards. You’ll only wind up sick!”

“I’ll be fine, Harold. And if I catch a cold, I’ll be fine on Wednesday.”

He briefly, gently clasps his hand around Harold’s, giving it a quick squeeze in passing that has Harold pause for too long to say anything more on the topic before he is off, running into the cold sea with an exuberant whoop of joy and Harold is left shaking his head in exasperation even as he commits the sound to memory. With a sigh, he carefully lowers himself into the sand next to the pile of John’s clothes where it’s dry, far enough from the water that only the strongest waves will occasionally lick his toes, settles in as comfortably as his back will allow and slowly eats his ice cream cone while he watches John frolic around in the water.

Soon, the sun finally breaks through the remaining cloud cover and Harold knows the expanse of the nearly empty beach lined by the glittering waves to both his sides would make for quite the stunning vista, if only he could tear his eyes away from his partner. Every now and then, John disappears under the surface and Harold finds himself holding his breath as well until he comes back up for air, worried despite himself.

Just before Harold becomes tempted to call out for him, by now worried about the possibility of hypothermia, John finally makes his way back out onto the beach, panting with exertion and the radiant grin still firmly in place. Drops of water run from his hair over high cheekbones, clumping his long eyelashes together, running along countless scars and Harold wishes he hadn’t finished his ice cream already, his mouth going dry, this time unable to turn away, to make himself stop staring.

Then John is beside him once more and, careful to keep enough distance to not get so much as a single drop of water onto Harold, lets himself fall backwards into the sand, lying there spread-eagled, eyes closed and chest heaving, smiling up at the sky. Harold nonetheless makes a noise of disapproval.

“I hope this unnecessary risk to your physical well-being was worth it?” He can only hope his voice doesn’t sound too distracted. Now that he knows he won’t be caught, his eyes roam across the lean muscles and the healthy layer of softness that has accumulated over his stomach due to Harold’s insistence on regular and sufficient nutrition. He feels ashamed for this transgression of boundaries. The high-quality cotton of the boxer briefs is saturated with water and clings to the skin underneath.

“Definitely.” John says, with the same lightness Harold saw in his eyes earlier.

Swallowing down his guilt, Harold reaches out and starts untangling a small piece of algae that has made its home in John’s hair, hair that feels sleek and soft beneath his fingertips despite the salt water. And if it takes him significantly longer to remove the algae than Harold knows it should once John makes a content little hum and leans into the touch, he hopes it will go unmentioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this thingy! I hope you still like it?? If you do, pls leave me a comment? Pretty please? (I could use some cheering up, and comments are very cheery things! I don't wanna go...)


	11. 50 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, there is only one bed, whatever shall they do?????
> 
> More fluff, more UST, more pining, and you didn't even have to wait for months *throws confetti as a distraction and runs away*
> 
> I hope you'll like this one!

“Worth it.” John insists through chattering teeth as they finally enter their hotel room, having quietly sneaked through the lobby while the receptionist took a bathroom break, hoping to remain unseen with both their feet bare and sandy and John still unmistakably wet.

“I’ll believe you if you still think so when you wake up with a temperature tomorrow.”

“Way to think positive, Harold.” the other teases.

“Positive thinking doesn’t fix hypothermia, Mr Reese, however, warm showers do. So if you’re inclined to listen to me once more, I’d advise you to go and take one.”

“Yes sir.” John gives him a mock salute and enters the bathroom, shutting the door after thoughtfully bringing Harold a towel for his feet. He spends the next few minutes busying himself with removing the worst of the sand from them on the balcony, distracting himself from the images of a wet and content and distractingly undressed John Reese lying on the beach the mention of the shower involuntarily calls up, until a knock from inside draws his attention.

When he steps back into the hotel room, John, now sans suit jacket but otherwise still fully clothed, regards him with a sheepish expression, gesturing to his dress shirt.

“If you don’t mind, could you maybe help me out here?” The problem soon becomes apparent. The buttons are small and John is shivering, hands shaking, fingers stiff from the cold and skin sticky with salt.

“Oh. Yes, of course. One moment.” He folds his towel and hangs it over the back of the sofa, swallowing thickly, unseen, taking a calming breath before stepping close to John, close enough to feel his warmth, in a strange reverse of how John sometimes hovers close to him in the library. He sets to work, undoing the first few buttons careful never to brush the skin revealed where the thin fabric parts – John’s undershirt was left behind in a bin by the beach, having been repurposed as a makeshift towel – in agonisingly slow progress.

When he reaches the button above John’s sternum, he realises that this strategy will drag this moment out in a way he’d rather avoid – or, perhaps more accurately, in a way a part of him is gaining an inappropriate amount of enjoyment from, delighting in the closeness, the warmth. Telling himself he is being ridiculous, he speeds his movements, deftly undoing the buttons at the cost of his fingertips tracing over the skin of John’s torso and abdomen by accident every now and then.

A more noticeable shiver shakes John’s body during one such unintended caress and makes Harold glance up in concern, finding John’s gaze stoically fixed on the view beyond the balcony. He wonders whether this is making the former operative uncomfortable, being touched with this strange intimacy, knowing what Harold feels for him. Since surely, he must know. Harold pushes the thought aside, then takes two halting steps backwards as the shirt falls open, breathing a sigh of relief. At least John doesn’t know that there is a hint of regret lurking behind the relief.

“There, all done.” Harold tells him, somewhat unnecessarily, more to break the tense silence than anything else.

It takes another second before John’s thousand yard stare returns to this room, before he murmurs a quiet “Thanks.” and vanishes into the bathroom once more with long strides, never once looking at Harold.

Determined to ignore his still elevated heartbeat and the lingering sense memory of warm skin under his fingertips, to think about anything other than, no matter the innocent circumstances, having just partially undressed the man he has been pining after for longer than he cares to admit, Harold turns to the bedside table, pulls the leaflet of information regarding the phones, TV and menus from its drawer. Deliberating for a few minutes, the sound of the shower running a soothing white noise in the background, he calls the room service and orders dinner for them both.

The shower is still running by the time he hangs up and while he is glad that John seems to have taken his advice to heart and is spending ample time warming up – certainly longer than he usually spends in the shower when their work necessitates having one at the library before returning to his apartment – it leaves Harold with little to do. He pulls out his phone, idly tapping through emails his various aliases have gotten that he hasn’t read since the 5th iteration, and unsurprisingly they haven’t gotten any more interesting in the iterations since. He almost regrets not bringing at least a laptop, even though his reluctance to disrupt their weekend trip with work was the reason he left it behind in the first place, and there seems little point to any of it these days when nothing he does is of permanence, but at least some mindless debugging work would have taken his mind off his partner, and the still unresolved matter of the double bed.

In the end, he turns on the TV, clicking through the channels. News are of no interest, he can speak along to the reports on most channels by now, and none of the shows running on these three days have ever peaked his interest. He halts on an older movie that it takes him a second to recognise, eyes widening when he does, before huffing in irritation, glaring at the screen as he turns it off.

That is how John finds him when he re-enters the main room, clad in dry underwear and a new undershirt, towelling his hair dry, skin still lightly flushed from the heat of the shower. He looks so much warmer to the touch than before.

“Finch? What’s that thing done to you? You look like you’re trying to make it blow a fuse by using the Force.”

Replacing the remote exactly where he picked it up to have an excuse not to look at John, Harold shakes his head at himself, clinging to the irritation even as he already feels it tilt more towards reluctant amusement at the irony of it all. “I found a channel that is currently playing Groundhog Day.”

John is silent for a moment, then his soft laughter fills the hotel room and Harold can’t bear looking away any longer, doesn’t want to miss out on seeing the glint of humour and joy in John’s eyes, even as he tries not to think about Detective Fusco’s and Root’s suggestion that he attempt the solution of the movie and kiss John, hoping against hope that his feelings aren’t unrequited after all. He heaves a long-suffering, if somewhat exaggeratedly so, sigh.

“I assume you are going to want to watch it and there is little chance of me convincing you that your judgement in relation to entertainment ideas doesn’t seem all that sound today?”

* * *

There is a strange tension lingering between them after they have finished their dinner and the movie ends – to watch it in their given situation has made it simultaneously both more and less humorous that it ordinarily might be, though since John seemed to feel more towards the former end of that spectrum, Harold deems it well worth dealing with his opinion towards the latter. The tension makes the silence that follows the end credits an uncomfortable one and Harold is all too happy to excuse himself to the bathroom, briefly stopping by the wardrobe to collect his pyjamas.

He takes his time freeing his feet of the remaining sand clinging to them, going through the usual routine of evening exercises he still isn’t convinced help with the cramps he suffers on most mornings, brushing his teeth and relieving himself. Getting changed is as always a slow and painful endeavour by nature, but just this once he is glad for the additional minutes of reprieve before he runs out of reasons to avoid facing the matter of their sleeping arrangements any longer.

Briskly, he steps back into the room, walking to the wardrobe once more and hanging up his suit pretending nothing is amiss, eyeing the slacks of his suit where the sea salt has dried into them with displeasure. They’re a lost cause and even though he will find himself wearing them once more next Wednesday, unblemished, some part of him regrets the ill treatment.

When he finally forces himself to turn towards John, it’s to find the other staring at him with an indecipherable look on his face. “Mr Reese? Is something wrong?”

John clears his throat awkwardly, one hand coming up to roughly drag over his neck before dropping to his lap, looking somewhere at the vague level of Harold’s collarbones but there is a hint of a soft smile playing around his lips. “No, nothing wrong. It’s just… I’ve never seen you in pyjamas before, Finch.”

Harold huffs, but there is no real heat behind it. “If you’ve envisioned me sleeping in a suit, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

John’s smile becomes more prominent for a moment before nearly disappearing once more. Harold misses it instantly. “Wouldn’t put it past you. But no, it’s a good look on you. Just different.”

The lull in conversation is just long enough to become uncomfortable, then Harold decides he ought to stop ignoring the elephant with the dark blue comforter on top in the room. “Speaking of sleeping arrangements...”

Immediately, John winces. “Sorry. I just didn’t want to spend our weekend trip driving around, looking for something suitable that last minute. I’ll take the couch. This one actually seems pretty comfy.”

“John, we both know that’s nonsense for someone of your height, besides, after your ill advised dip in the Atlantic today, you should at least keep yourself warm tonight, there is no reason to exacerbate the consequences of that needlessly. Besides, I will fit on there better than you.”

“Harold...”

“No. If your next sentence is in any way tangent to anything amounting to _I’ll be fine_ , please do refrain from saying it. And I am well aware that it would be less than ideal for my back, but it’s nothing I cannot handle, and since you have a tendency to expect me to continuously accept my dearest friend sacrificing his own well-being for the sake of my comfort, I believe the very least I can ask of you is the respect to accept the same when the occasion calls for it. I will be sleeping on the couch and unlike your impending cold, any resulting detriment will most likely be gone well _before_ the next iteration.”

John glances towards the bed, but thankfully doesn’t argue his point any further. “You know, we could always just share. It’s big enough. If you don’t mind.”

His selfish desire to agree to this suggestion is firmly pushed down, no matter how heavenly the idea of lying there, warm and comfortable with John beside him, seems. “Thank you, I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not encroach on your personal space more that I already have today.”

“If you’re trying to protect my virtue, I promise I don’t mind either. And if you’re worried about personal space, I never needed much and the military drove even that out of me. But I usually don’t move much in my sleep, I’ll stay on my side.” Indicating for Harold to follow him, John steps over towards the bed, pulling back the comforter invitingly. The sky outside is the same dark blue as the sheets, and John’s irises seem to attempt to match the colour as well in the low lighting of the bedside lamps. “Come on. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not making your back worse.”

Harold makes no move to join him. “I’d prefer if you didn’t silently endure being uncomfortable out of feeling some sort of obligation towards me.”

John is frowning now. “I won’t be enduring anything, and what I feel for you isn't _obligation_ , Harold. If this is making you uncomfortable, I get it, though if that’s the case please let me just take the couch. But if you don’t mind, if it’s not making _you_ uncomfortable, I...” He looks down, scarred and gun calloused fingers trailing over the sheets, looking surprisingly pale and delicate against the dark fabric. “Please. Just come to bed. I don’t mind having you here, actually… I like having you close, knowing you’re safe, and that I could get to you before anyone else can. I’ll sleep better like that. You could just… pretend I’m not even there, if you want.”

His conscience urges him to continue the argument, tells him that not minding isn't quite the same as comfort, because surely John cannot be entirely comfortable with his own suggestion, given the matter of Harold’s feelings. And yet. It makes sense, considering John’s usual protectiveness, considering everything Harold knows about him. It makes sense, enough so to erode Harold’s defences against this kind of temptation, when they’re already worn down by the slowly but steadily increasing fatigue. And there is something genuinely pleading in John’s voice, something vulnerable that makes his words ring like there is a confession hidden somewhere in between them, even if Harold can’t quite make it out.

He swallows, turning around to collect the spare pillows he spotted earlier in the closet and hopefully suppressing his longing enough that it won’t show too obviously in his eyes by the time he finally does approach the bed himself. “If you’re quite sure…?”

The relieved warmth in John’s gaze would already be answer enough. “I’m sure. Need help with anything?”

“No thank you.” He arranges the pillows on the side further away from the door – John having already claimed the other one, putting himself in between Harold and anyone who might enter out of a force of habit, Harold suspects – under John’s watchful gaze, knowing the former operative is probably gaining as much information about Harold’s injuries as he can from this alone. Harold finds he doesn’t mind all that much. Climbing into bed is nearly as unpleasant an exercise as getting changed is for him, but finally he slips his legs under the shared covers. It feels warm, warmer than it ought to, though this is most likely a figment of his imagination.

John waits patiently for him to settle as comfortably as he can get and place his glasses onto the nightstand before turning off the lights, leaving the room in half-darkness from the lights in front of the hotel. If he listens closely, Harold can hear the ocean, its waves crashing onto land in a steady rhythm. The sound isn’t nearly as soothing as that of John’s breathing next to him.

* * *

Harold wakes up at some point during the night, comfortable and content in a way he cannot remember being since before his injury, and before he is fully conscious, still cradled in the remaining hold of fading dreams where everything is soft and gentle and the world has lost its sharper edges, he leans a little further into the warmth pressed closely along his side that keeps him from feeling cold even though the blanket has slipped down to his hips, fingers tracing idle patterns along the strong arm wrapped around his waist, and he smiles into the darkness.

His eyes blink open, tired and dry, and he thinks he can see the outline of the slowly healing bruise on John’s forearm, reaches to trace that as well, but that is when the realisation of what he is doing begins to filter in through the fog of sleep lingering in his mind and he pulls his hand away as though burnt, lying tense and perfectly still. Even in his sleep, John must have noticed his tension on some level of awareness, making a small sound of discontent and shuffling closer.

A selfish part of Harold is urging him to go back to sleep, to give in to the tempting warmth, let himself be held by the man he loves, just this once, no matter how difficult it will be to go without repeating this experience once he’s had it. But his conscience is waking as well, and letting himself enjoy this feels dangerously close to taking advantage, so instead he slowly, carefully and hoping not to wake the other, tries to loosen John’s hold on him with the reluctant, halfway formed intention to relocate to the sofa after all.

John makes a slightly louder version of the same, unhappy noise, frowns in his sleep, and Harold stills his attempts, holding his breath. To no avail. John’s eyes blink open, instantly fully alert, but only for a moment. Then, he seems to recognise Harold and they fall halfway closed again, a sleepy smile flitting over his face. “Har’ld.” he murmurs, then the frown is back. “Don’ go.”

Around Harold’s waist, John’s arm tightens once again, pulling them closer than before and seemingly for good measure, a pair of strong, lean legs tangle with Harold’s own and this time the soft noise John makes is one of approval.

With a sigh and a lump in his throat, Harold resigns himself to his bittersweet fate, thinking that at the very least, he can now be completely certain that John isn’t uncomfortable sharing a bed with him. And perhaps, it occurs to him, he might just not be uncomfortable with Harold’s feelings for him. The thought has his mind stutter to a halt, then it races faster than before, so much cast into new light.

Because of course he wouldn’t be, someone as selfless and boundlessly kind as John, of course, if he cannot return them, he would quietly accept Harold’s feelings, without judgement or expectation. Would even seek this closeness, the comfort in it that he can and most likely will be glad to share with Harold. And as every so often in the dark of night, when Harold chooses to sleep rather than wait for the wakefulness of Wednesday mornings, he loves him so dearly his chest aches with it.

There is a sense of peace to be found in his new realisation of John’s acceptance, even if it does little to curb that ache. Even though Harold thinks he imagines the sensation of a warm kiss being pressed to his shoulder through the thin silk of his pyjamas, just as he is about to once more slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, John wakes up on Thursday with a mild fever and despite his insistence that he can do so, Harold drives them back while John rests in the passenger seat. And Harold fusses over him, ignoring his frequent but halfhearted protests, until Margarita takes on that particular task twofold on Friday, pausing only in between supplying John with portion after portion of freshly homemade chicken soup to place a comforting hand on Harold’s shoulder, telling him not to worry. “He’ll be fine in no time, with you to look after him. You’ll see. Love conquers all.” She winks at him, then disappears into her kitchen for yet another bowl of soup.

This time, they stay for the rest of the iteration. John gives him a smirk, rasping “Worth it.” with his voice even rougher than usual due to his sore throat, and Harold has just enough time to side-eye him with exasperated fondness before the iteration ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you did like it? Comments are like warm cuddles after a cold day (or cool sea baths on a hot one), so pretty please leave your dear author one? :)


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